Saturdays with Rosie
by lena1987
Summary: Complete. One taciturn, retired teacher. One determined single mother. One energetic bundle of precociousness. A quiet romance set in the North of England. SSHG.
1. Chapter 1

_This was written for the 2016 SSHG Prompt Fest on Livejournal. I wrote this story for the lovely Banglabou, and AdelaideArcher was kind enough to beta it for me. It is complete in 4 chapters. Forgive me for the lack of sequel for 'Summer' thus far, but I wanted to give you all this to make up for it. I shall post the chapters up as often as I am able._

 **Disclaimer:** All characters belong to JKR.

* * *

 **Saturdays with Rosie**

 **Chapter 1**

 **2016**

At last: home. He pushed the gate closed and trudged down the stone path. The early morning air was cold, bone-chillingly so, and the man shoved his hands deeper into the warm, welcome pockets of his worn-out coat. With a quiet, muffled word, lest his skin return again to the frigid air, the door opened and he toed off his boots before stepping into the hallway.

It was cosy inside; he'd left the heating on, a given this far North, and one economic flick of his wand had the fire in the sitting room filling the room with warmth and light. He grunted with a soft and content form of satisfaction and made for the kitchen, his mouth already anticipating a hot cup of coffee. It was a good day, he decided; studiously he ignored the thought that came to him immediately after: that for years, every day had been _good_ and, thus, dully predictable.

Nevertheless, the view from the kitchen sink appeased and thrilled him. How could it not, when he was greeted with the foggy rolling hills of the Yorkshire Dales? A slow smile spread over his lips as he switched the kettle on – a watched kettle will never boil, Mam always said, so Severus Snape stared at the water bubbling away, daring it to take its time and stretch out his excuse for looking upon his domain so smugly.

It _was_ a good day, he knew. And, for a man that was rarely challenged, he decided that he would delight in it.

.

.

"Rose! _Rosie_!"

Hermione Granger's left foot was tapping incessantly against the lower stair as she waited. "Rose!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming!"

Hermione's left foot kicked the wall. "Then where are you?"

"Coming!"

With a roll of her eyes, the wild-haired witch moved to stand by the front door. One of these days, it would be worth her while to actually remember to change the wards of the house to allow Apparation. _Ah, but then,_ she thought, _one cannot pick and choose who can pop into existence at any moment inside the house. Still, perhaps the old outhouse could be taken out of the wards… But then my garden will be fair game for anyone and—ah. Enough._

After fumbling around in a small beaded bag for the umpteenth time to confirm the presence of her keys and various other parenting paraphernalia, she growled when Rose flew down the stairs. Her daughter was a blur of long, curly red hair, and Hermione sighed fondly when she came to a stop in front of her, panting.

"A few more minutes and we would've been late," she chastised gently, not bothering to set any significance to it, the way Rose's father might have. "Are you ready?"

By way of answering, Rose opened the door and jumped out into the crisp morning air. "Hurry up, Mum!" she called, and Hermione, too amused to scoff, followed the tall young girl as she bounded down the street.

When mother and daughter reached the nearest spot that was without windows from the surrounding terraced houses looking down upon it, they held hands and disappeared without a word. The only exception was the ghost of a tiny, excited giggle that stayed behind in the seconds after their abrupt exit.

.

.

"Are you sure about this, Mum?" asked Rose, staring up at the magnificent castle with barely disguised apprehension. "What if they say no?"

 _But it's still beautiful, isn't it Rosie? In a terrifying, abnormal kind of way._ Hermione took a quick breath in, reining in her mind. "Then they say no, love," she said simply. "And we'll sort it out either way."

It was a struggle to ignore the flash of fear on her young daughter's face. Hermione covered her lips with her warm woollen scarf, determined not to allow Rose to see the way her mouth formed a downturned grimace. For Rosie was right, of course – Hermione suspected that this entire visit was redundant. She couldn't shake the feeling that Minerva was just appeasing her by agreeing to the meeting in the first place, but it was too important to ignore it. She had to investigate every single option – Ron might've been comfortable to let Rosie sit on the sidelines while the rest of the children began their formal magical education at Hogwarts, but Hermione was damn well going to do something about it.

She tossed her head of curls and tugged on the skirt of her robes. Her movements were awkward and fumbling, though she schooled her features into a bland, polite expression as she linked arms with her daughter and began to walk to the gate. Thankful that she had bothered to learn at least the most rudimentary skills in Occlumency during that horrid year on the run, the witch tucked her nerves away for the moment.

At almost thirty seven, Hermione felt too tired and too bloody old to return to the castle and its inhabitants. She hadn't been back in at least a decade – why should she, after all? She could recognise the value in some of the staff, and knew as well as any that she had needed guidance to develop her magical skills, but the unofficial lessons in war and tyranny were exhausting. Looking up at the castle as they passed through the gates, she suppressed a shiver at the way it morphed for a moment from imposing and regal to one half-ruined, with smoke and the scent of charred bodies wafting over the approaching pair.

She paused, and Rose tugged on her arm. "Come on, Mum," her daughter said, ever the matter-of-fact girl. "We can go to the bookshop in Durham after this. That one near the Cathedral that you've been wanting to visit again."

The curly-haired woman arched an eyebrow and grinned down at her daughter. "You mean the one that _you've_ been asking me about all week?"

Rose shrugged, offering her one impish grin. "Might be. Or you could take me to York again, to see the museum."

Hermione opened her mouth then closed it again, opting to squeeze Rose's hand instead of responding. The doors of the castle had been pushed open, and it took all of her strength to swallow her pride and fix a pleasant, sunny smile on her face.

"Minerva!" she called, taking strength from the kind smile that the Headmistress bestowed upon them. The older witch, dressed in black robes with a subtle green tartan sash, clapped her hands together.

"Hermione, Rose! Welcome," said the Headmistress, ushering them inside the Entrance Hall with a wave of her hand. "How wonderful to have you both here, after all this time."

Hermione placed a hand on her daughter's back as they walked towards the stairs to Minerva's office. "Thank you for seeing us, Minerva. Or should I—"

"I won't have you calling me by anything other than my name, young lady," the Headmistress said firmly. "Being in my office as opposed to Order functions doesn't change a thing!"

Inwardly pleased, Hermione replied, "The same applies to us, of course. I'm sorry it's taken us so long to come and visit you."

"Nonsense," said Minerva. "We've both of us been busy – you, perhaps, more so than I," she added, a slight wistful smile playing on her mouth as she nodded to Rose. The poignant moment was soon lost, however, as the gargoyle leapt aside when the password was said with aplomb: "Sporran!"

Hermione spluttered and waved away Rose's curious look. "Go on, love," she said, allowing her daughter to take the first step as the staircase carried them ever higher.

Daughter, mother and headmistress stayed silent as they ascended, though the quiet atmosphere was broken immediately when Rose caught a glimpse of the office. With a cry of excitement, she burst into the room and stopped an inch away from the desk, in awe of the various odds and ends ticking and clicking away.

"Oh, this is so _fascinating,_ " exclaimed Rose, dropping to her knees to be level with the gadgets. "We simply must get some for the house, Mum!"

Ignoring Minerva's quizzical glance, Hermione snorted. "And have to hide them from the neighbours? I think not."

Rose nodded sagely as she said, "You're right, of course. Poor Mrs. Whitworth would need an appointment with a defibrillator."

Giving in to the flash of satisfaction, Hermione smiled. For a ten year old girl, her daughter was more intelligent than she'd ever been – her books and cleverness were, in Rose, combined with a natural wit that Hermione had only mastered after the war ended. How, though, she managed to morph wit with wry humour was a mystery.

Minerva, bemused, tilted her chin towards the seats in front of the desk. At her non-verbal command, another seat trotted over from the side of the room. The three sat and navigated social niceties, before Hermione could hold her tongue no longer.

"Have you heard back from the Board? About my request?" _About our request,_ she might have said, for Rose was sitting with her back straight, her hands folded on her lap, quietly observing the two older women.

Minerva's eyes left hers for a fraction of a second, darting away to glance at the door, and Hermione's shoulders sagged. Rose, too, offered one small sigh.

"I have heard, yes. I forwarded your letter to the Board when I received it last month – and I included my own opinion," added the Headmistress, seemingly keen to distance herself from the cold decision. She reached over and placed one wrinkled, paper-soft hand over Hermione's knee. "They held their last meeting before the beginning of the new school year only two days prior. I apologise, but I had suspected you'd come to me in person so I didn't send an owl immediately, and—"

"It's all right." Hermione's eyes followed her daughter's form as she silently left the chairs and went to inspect a bookcase further away, her interested already lost. "All right," she repeated softly. "So, no?"

"They declined the possibility of formal private tutoring, yes."

"Ah." _Ah. Ah. What else is there to say, then?_ She pursed her lips. "Did any of them agree?" It was probably foolhardy to hope that her sudden anger went unnoticed. For an instant, she almost wondered if she might track each pompous bastard down and—and. Well, and. It was folly to entertain such delightful notions, after all. She'd burn the world for her daughter—it felt like she already had—but bystanders caught in the blaze might not sympathise. Indeed, Minerva was watching her warily.

"Lucius Malfoy," said the Headmistress, a thread of disbelief in her tone. "I saw his signature on it. But the rest, no."

How curious, that Malfoy should agree and that the others—who had thrown him out during her third year before he found his way back in much later—should deny them! She almost laughed but caught herself before the breathy gasp eventuated into anything.

"This is very disappointing news," she said then, lulled by Minerva's honest eyes. "It's… why, it's unbelievable, is what it is. That they should—that they—ah." _Enough._

She gathered her things. "Thank you, Minerva, for your efforts. I'm sorry that they bore no fruit." It was easy to hide behind social graces – far easier than blurting out the crass oaths that were whirling through her mind. "Let's go, Rose."

Minerva, with her hair that was silver though still threaded through with some of her original, stark black, looked affronted at their abrupt departure. Hermione wanted to scream. Instead, she smiled thinly and took her daughter by the hand, leading her out of the magical school that had denied itself to the girl, all because she was a squib.

 _Bloody no-good twits, the lot of them._

 _._

 _._

When Rose was settled in bed, her attention now safely fixed on a battered edition of The Hobbit, Hermione meandered down the stairs and collapsed onto the sofa. Rosie hadn't cried; it had been disconcerting, for she didn't quite know what to _do_ for her daughter when they'd returned. She had only shrugged resignedly, spoken of going to the bookshop another day, and then left her mother in the kitchen while she took herself off for a bath.

Hermione wasn't a stranger to stoicism – she'd been on her own for close to six years, and was well used to scrubbing her face to hide puffy, tired eyes from Rosie. After separating from Ron, who, despite his bumbling, well-meaning acts of fatherhood, could never come to grips with having a daughter without any significant magical capabilities, Hermione had done it all alone.

The faint glow from the stairs left the sitting room, and without a second thought, she conjured the silver otter and sent it to her daughter's room. She'd already kissed her and murmured the words of love that Rosie thrived on, but her girl still preferred to slip into sleep with the otter swimming around the room.

Sighing, Hermione twisted until her body lay on the sofa, her head cushioned on the end. She stared at the ceiling, unable to will her pensive frown away. "What do I have left?" she asked herself quietly, snorting at the similarities to her first year on her own.

After leaving their small cottage that'd been built behind the Burrow, Hermione had headed North in search of cheaper rents. 'What do I have?' had been the only way she'd managed to start all over again – each night she'd gone to sleep in Rosie's bed while silently making a list. For six months, it had only included Rose, a roof over their heads, and Crookshanks. After twelve months, it was: Rose, Crookshanks, a larger flat and a position in one of the few Ministry offices located outside of London. She'd applied for a position as the Assistant to the local Muggle-relations officer for Northern England, and now, six years later, she had impressed even herself. She had a beautiful daughter, the position of Muggle relations officer entirely hers after the retirement of her predecessor, an old Volkswagen parked near the old privy, an even older and grouchier Crooks, and, best of all, she had her own home. It had been thrilling to sign her name on the mortgage papers to buy the terraced house on Prospect Street. Ron had visited once, a perfunctory check to ensure that he knew where to Apparate to if ever Rose needed collecting (Hermione preferred to drop her off herself), and his befuddled mien at the blue-collar area had only made her more satisfied.

She was at home, here. Her parents still pestered about nicer, homelier areas in Kent or Sussex, or even using the mortgage money to build a flat in the large garden behind their Exeter home, but Hermione didn't want to leave. She hadn't thought of herself as being a woman at home in a city, and even less so the North, where the winters were harsher and the people blunter. But Lancaster had taken her in and given her an affordable home; it'd welcomed her into its grimy embrace, and it was here that she'd truly come into her own.

 _And what do I have left? What else can I do?_ Hermione padded into the kitchen and turned the kettle on. She had exhausted all of the available options for Rosie, and it turned her stomach. She'd long discarded the avenue of persuading Hogwarts to take her on as a fulltime student. At first, this had been Hermione's only aim, but she had come to understand that her daughter would have been out of place and behind from day one. She'd tutored the girl herself since birth, but was well aware that Rosie desired to experience the Magical world in the way she had, the way her cousins did – through structured schooling. It was their luck that she had been born without the ability to do so, but that hadn't stopped their Herbology lessons on Saturday mornings in the garden, or, when it was warmer, Friday evenings in deserted parklands for Astronomy.

But it wasn't enough – it never would be. Rosie wasn't _deficient,_ she wasn't _unsuited_ to the magical world. She was simply a girl with only tiny amounts of magical ability; she could see a Patronus, she could feel wards sliding over her skin. The girl could see Hogwarts, for heaven's sake! Hermione knew that she couldn't allow her daughter to feel as if she didn't belong, for her two weekends a month at The Burrow would only reinforce it unless she found a way for her daughter to carve a place for herself in their society. Already Hermione was fielding Ron's letters of exasperation: _couldn't she get the girl a play-wand from the joke shop? Couldn't Hermione bother just once to look into charming a broomstick that would work for their daughter, unable to successfully cast even the first: 'Up!'_

Hermione had started throwing the letters into the fire before bothering to even open them. She was grateful— _I truly, truly am; this could be far worse than it is—_ that Ron had never deliberately bypassed her wishes thus far. But his lack of original thought, the absence of a true understanding, was beginning to grate on her. If she could manage to treat her daughter with love and respect, why did Ron find it so awkward to include her in his family?

As a Muggle-born witch, she was more than comfortable with living on the other side of the fence – apart from wards, Apparation and the odd, basic spell, Hermione barely used magic at all. And why would she? Her daughter couldn't, and she knew more than most how it felt to be surrounded by people who looked through her, rather than at her. She'd gone to the Burrow for birthdays on occasion – she _knew_ that it was only Fred and George who didn't give a flying fig. The rest treated Rosie like Argus Filch, the caretaker who had been gruff and dour, but somehow had managed to get a reputation for cruelty worse than Professor Snape's horrid social skills. They spoke to her long enough to tick a box, then scampered off on their toy brooms.

If she had any say in the matter, she'd cut them both off from the magical world in its entirety. But Rosie was adamant – she wanted to learn what she could learn. She wanted her place, she wanted to know her history. She wished to make her own way, and as her mother, Hermione could only hope to guide her.

Hermione stirred the tea with more force than necessary, her lips pressing together as the spoon continued to hit the sides of the cup. She thought then of the hissed arguments that she and Ron would have late at night – in those years, it was only when her husband would shut himself away in the bedroom that she'd managed to get any peace at all.

She huffed and plodded back into the sitting room. A wave of her hand had her latest book in her lap, and she resolved not to think further about her dastardly ex-husband, or her daughter's future. There would be time for that – there was always time for that, but for now, Hermione was content to lose herself in Mr. Darcy's atrocious manners for a while.

.

.

"Are you ready, Mum?"

Hermione looked up from her forgotten, now cold, toast and blinked. "Right! Yes. Come on, love. Have you got your purse?"  
Rose tapped her bag with a self-satisfied nod. "I've been saving for a fortnight! I'll have enough for _two_ new books."

"Two?" Hermione exclaimed, rising to tidy the table. "A better effort than mine – only one for me today."

With two hands planted firmly on her hips, her daughter said, "Have you been having those takeout lunches again?"

Hermione let out a hoot of laughter and squeezed Rose's shoulders. "Someone's got to keep the Fired Wok in business. It may as well be me, don't you think?"

They let themselves out and Hermione surreptitiously checked the wards.

"Where to today, Mum?"

Linking arms, mother and daughter began the walk down to the end of the street, aiming for the bus. It had been two weeks since Hogwarts; today, the first Saturday of the month, had been named Bookshop Day for the last three years. Using a combination of Apparation, Muggle transport and their own two feet, the Granger girls had scoured used and new stores from Brighton to Inverness, though Hermione had planned an outing slightly closer to home.

"Mum?"

"Durham," she answered promptly, grinning at her daughter's impish squeak.

"Not to the People's!"

"To the People's," Hermione confirmed, slightly surprised that she, too, was able to feel a thrill at the thought of spending an afternoon in the cosy shop above a shoe store. Her mouth watered as she decided on ordering a coffee from the café close-by; perhaps even Rose might like a white hot chocolate.

She knew that she was indulging her daughter – Rosie didn't _need_ to be showered with affection and trips and sweet drinks. She had shouldered the disappointment and moved on. But Hermione couldn't – it was a relic from her crusading days, she supposed, and while it was terribly inconvenient for her financial position, she couldn't help searching for ways to keep the sweet smile on Rosie's lips.

.

.

"I don't know how you managed to get here so quickly," the thin, bearded man said, "but I'm bloody well glad that you're here. I booked him six months ago! Six bloody months, and he gives me a day's notice that he can't make it. Should've went local."

"I thought you did," Severus commented blandly, eyeing the shop with keen interest. "Grindley seems to be a common name in Durham."

The man looked down at his name badge and offered him a sheepish grin. "He's my second cousin – local, but not _local._ Know what I mean? Money before, well, anyone."

"And this way, you're not paying a penny."

"Eh? Well – yes, you could say that, but we were in a bind, weren't we, and—"

He sneered, more out of habit than anything else. "It was not an insult, Ted. Booking through an educational institution is an often overlooked, but sound, decision."

"And you get more experience under your belt, eh?" Ted's friendly brown eyes shone. "But you do look a bit…"

Severus cocked an eyebrow and adjusted the strap of his small shoulder bag. "A bit?"

Ted soldiered on bravely with a stammered, "Well, a bit old, don't you think? For an amateur photographer. I admire you though. Retirees with goals. Great to see."

He was unable to restrain the way his fingers moved to touch the strands of grey in his hair. Cut shorter these days, to his chin not his shoulders, his no-longer-black hair marked him – he looked every bit of his fifty six years. Possibly a good decade or so more. He wasn't grey all over, not yet, but he soon would be.

Registering that Ted, who was a tall, mousy-haired sod, was still rambling on, he tuned in just in case it was anything of worth.

"…And when my wife mentioned your group, I thought: perfect! Just perfect. Still – how on earth did you get from – where do you live again?"

Severus stared at him. "Dent."

"Dent! That's it. Great town. Nice views?"

" _Enchanting_ views." This, at least, they could agree on.

"Too right. As I was saying – it's almost a miracle that we booked your group yesterday, and here you are. From the Dales. You must have wings."

 _Christ almighty. I shall geld Lucius at the next available opportunity. 'Dabbling in hobbies is harmless,' indeed. Wanker._

Severus cleared his throat. "Shall we get on with it?"

Thankfully, Ted gave him a brief tour and then left him to it. It was quite peaceful, Severus thought, as he meandered around the People's Bookshop, photographing the book displays. For his own interest, he snapped a few shots of the posters— _'Meanwhile, what about Socialism?' 'SolidariTea!' 'The London Radical Bookfair!'—_ then turned to the stairs and headed for the street. Navigating it was easy—pedestrians only—and he stopped in front of a dull, white-washed Opticians. Keeping the lanyard around his neck clearly visible, lest someone took issue to a random old git taking pics of the public, Severus raised the viewfinder to eye level and squinted.

The exterior of the ground level was rather ridiculous, though strangely suitable. It housed an eclectic looking shoe shop, but the door to the left that led to the stairs for a café, jeweller's and the bookshop was… charming, he decided on eventually. He knew that he would return on his own time, purely to sift through the fascinating used and often rare books; granted, they were entirely Muggle, but he was retired. He could do whatever he damn well pleased.

Which is why, when he caught sight of a wild-haired woman heading through that very door, her knotted chestnut curls sprawling down her back and her jeans sensually sliding over long, long legs, Severus drew breath and smiled. She held the hand of a slim little girl who was gesturing excitedly at everything in the street, and, though he was mortified at himself, he found himself zooming in to where her left hand was absentmindedly twisting in her curls. No ring. Interesting.

A bookshop _and_ a lovely woman. Suddenly nervous beyond the pale – for he _had_ to return for Ted at least, and there was no hiding his windswept, battered appearance if she was making her way up to the Attic and the shop – Severus waited a few agonising moments, and then strode for the door.

Pausing just long enough to wonder at why his palms were damp, he cleared his throat. "Go on," he muttered. "Get in there."

And somehow, he managed to open the door and make straight for the stairs.

.

.

She was there. No longer holding the hand of the young girl, the woman crouched in one of the far corners. She was his kind of woman, there was no doubt in it; her nose was only inches from the titles and her fingers flitted over spines, searching, seeking. Severus stood at the entryway, unsure of himself, and flummoxed at just why she felt familiar. He couldn't recall ever meeting a woman like this in years, not that he'd bothered to venture out of the village unless he absolutely needed to.

Shapely hips, strong thighs, hair a wild mess. Her arms, covered in a ridiculously bright purple cardigan, provided a stage for delicate, finely-boned wrists. He knew a desire to hold her hand, to run his fingers through the unruly and surely unmanageable creature that was her hair.

Severus tilted his head and pondered the subject of the woman. He missed his lank hair, then; there was no curtain to hide his eyes, now only gazing upon her but not really seeing her. He wondered why it was that her presence felt like it sucked the air out of his chest, and sent a heavy-handed foot onto the throttle at the same time. Strange.

"All done?"

 _Ah. Duty calls._

"Indeed," he said, turning to face Ted. In the periphery of his vision he noted the copper-haired girl, flitting between the shelves in the Young Adult section of the shop. Ted waved at the girl, evidently familiar with her habit of soft exclamations. Her _'Oh!'_ reached Severus' ears and a jolt of warmth shot through his chest.

"Regular customer," Ted explained briefly. "One of my best."

"The girl?"

Both men turned to watch her fully. She was a sight for sore eyes – pretty but dangerous in her sharp intelligence. No more than ten or eleven, Severus deduced, and he wanted even more to meet the mother who had nurtured this summer storm of young woman.

"The girl, more than her Mam. That there is Rosie. Comes once every two months or so – has done for years now. Her Mam's more picky, but Rosie, oh." Ted snorted fondly. "Everything is new for Rosie."

"It's the age," commented Severus. Then, surprising himself, he admitted, "I miss it." Not being _ten,_ but the new knowledge, the thrill of uncovering something. It was rare, these days.

"Oh aye," said Ted, slipping deeper into his accent. "To be young again. And here's the young miss now."

For Rosie had two books in her lightly freckled hands, and she was before them with an eager look of curiosity.

"Hullo," said the girl, ensnaring his attention with one polite smile. There was a very light Northern lilt in her voice; too light for a girl born here, he decided, and quite the same as what was left of his own after decades of smoothing it out at Hogwarts. "Who are you?"

With eyebrows at his hairline, Severus looked around for her mother, but she was out of hearing range, still immersed in making her selection. Returning his gaze to the girl, he crossed his arms. "The photographer. Amateur photographer," he added awkwardly, shrugging. "Who are you?"

"Rose," she declared. "I've never seen you here before."

"I've never been here before."

Ted's eyes, gleaming with amusement, flicked between the two. Rosie was not deterred.

She asked, "Why not? It's the _best_ bookshop in the _world._ Except maybe Scrivener's in Derbyshire. Or Leakey's in Inverness. I do like Leakey's…"

Now, this – this was familiar. Severus realised that he was smiling, delighting in this tiny little thing and her openness. She reminded him of a girl many years before, who he'd disliked because of her freedom to seek and display knowledge, a freedom he hadn't had then. He returned the camera to his bag and linked long-fingered hands behind his back.

"I have not been to Leakey's. Perhaps one day I shall. I rather enjoy The Haunted Bookshop," he said slowly, knowing he made quite the picture in his old jeans, black woollen coat, mixed-up hair and black-rimmed glasses. Years of staring at pages had turned his eyes into pitiful things, and glasses were his only hope. He certainly couldn't be bothered with contact lenses.

"In Oxford?" asked Rosie, screwing up her nose. He opened his mouth but she got there first. "No! In Cambridge. It's red, isn't it? Bright red. With all of the illustrated books."

"An adequate description." It wasn't a common occasion, but Severus was partial to the odd splurge of an antique tome and a coffee from the café next door.

"Yes. It suits you. The Haunted, I mean. You look like someone who would like to buy books from a place called The Ha—"

"Rosie!"

The girl grimaced. "Uhm… sorry, sir." She waved over her shoulder, no doubt looking at her mother who he could hear tapping her foot near the register. He didn't turn around, not yet.

"It's quite all right. I have enjoyed our conversation." Rain had begun to fall on the roof, but Severus barely heard it. He was occupied instead with wondering why the girl's eyes, brown and clear like chestnuts on a winter table, looked so…

"Rosie?" The older woman's voice was sharp and clear, though not unkind.

And he knew it; he _knew_ it.

Severus turned as Rosie trotted over to her mother. And there, with one welcoming arm open, ready to tuck her daughter to her side, was Hermione Granger.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"Don't go!" Hermione blurted, clutching the bag of books to her chest. She tugged on Rosie's hand and the two of them flew down the stairs, chasing the descending figure of Severus Snape.

Professor Snape! Here, after all of these years! Severus Snape, a school of photography lanyard around his neck, staring at her in surprise and looking far too attractive for such a tiny little bookshop. Severus Snape, chatting amiably with her daughter, his charcoal eyes gleaming and elegant hands tucked behind his body. Hermione cursed under her breath, annoyed at herself – she'd taken one look at his striking face and all her mouth could do was open and close like a ruddy fish. Taking her reaction for disgust—or something worse—he'd said something to Ted about sending a disk (a disk? What disk?) in a fortnight and disappeared with a frown on his face.

It was all she could do to thrust enough pounds into Ted's waiting hand and jog out of the room. _I should've worn something nice! Now he's seen me in this bloody god-awful cardigan and I haven't brushed my hair and Rosie's compared him to a ghost with a bloody haunted house and good_ lord, _if I don't see him again then my life might as well be over because—_

"Mum! Stop internalising. Hurry up, or he'll disappear!"

"Rose!" Then, "How on earth—"

"He's a wizard, Mum! Couldn't you tell?"

She stopped on the third last step. "I know him, love. Of course I know that he's—but how did _you_ know?"

Rosie shrugged. "Just a feeling."

"Ah," said Hermione sagely, growling at her own slowness. "He's probably gone… Oh, we've missed him, I'm sure we have."

"No we haven't! Look!"

Mother and daughter stared at a man striding away down the street, his black coat whipping around him in the wind. For a moment, Hermione could only stare at the thin, older man. How many years had it been since she'd seen, and been in awe of, his commanding stride? Too many to count, if she wished to remain optimistic.

"All right. Are you ready to leg it?"

In response, Rosie took off down the street, her lanky legs propelling her forward at a run. "Sir, sir!" she called out, and Hermione ran after her, laughing into the wind at the people stopping to stare.

"Professor!" she yelled. "Professor Snape!"

"Snape, Snape!" Rosie called, having picked up on his name, waving her arms madly when the man in question slowed down and looked around, his face a comical expression of disbelief and confusion. "Professor Snape!"

Snape's jaw dropped. Rosie skidded to a stop in front of him and Hermione, chest heaving, folded over in half and let out a peal of laughter. He eyed them both warily, but his mouth was twitching at the corners – bemusement, she hoped, because condemnation would be far too upsetting to consider.

Thankfully, Rose stuck her hand out and grinned. "Hullo, again."

His flat mouth cracked, and Snape chuckled. Hermione looked away, lest he see how dazed and off-kilter she felt at noticing just how well his crooked smile looked upon his normally harsh features.

"Hello, Rosie," he said, his baritone voice slipping and sliding over the words. "We meet again." He took her hand then released it, a perfunctory gesture of politeness rather than a friendly shake. Still, it was something. He turned his face to her, and Hermione flushed at the undisguised note of interest in his dark gaze. "Hello, Ms. Granger."

"Hello, sir," she said breathlessly. In a fit of insanity, she held her hand out and when he took it, she stared at where their flesh met. His hand was warm and dry, and she smiled up at him, pleased beyond her own understanding. "I'm sorry about – about – uhm… Hello." _One would think you've never spoken to someone of the opposite sex before, you idiot!_ She cast around for words, aware that he was staring at her unabashedly now. "It's lovely to see you. Again. It's lovely to see you again."

"Again?" he said silkily, arching an eyebrow.

 _Oh, god. Get it together! Get it together!_ "Well," she mumbled, "you know. We met up… up there, and now we're… eh… now we're down here and, erm… ah…" _Shit!_

Giving up, Hermione elbowed Rosie, who promptly said loudly, "We'd like to invite you for coffee, Mister Snape! Won't you come? Please?" To Hermione's horror, her ten year old daughter batted her eyelashes.

Snape seemed to have lost his ability to speak. To make matters worse, Rose leaned in and hissed into her ear, completely audibly, "Sink or swim, Mum!"

At this, the Professor's eyes were fit to bust and he threw his head back and laughed, a great, deep, bellow of a laugh that made Hermione sag in relief. To her consternation, it was also the moment that her previously quiet sex-drive chose to perk up and dust itself off. She didn't know what to do – it was surprising enough to find herself desiring her former Professor, but there was also the not inconsiderable fact that it had been weeks since she'd even attempted to shave her legs. She wasn't ready, she realised with a hint of panic. Not ready for desire, not ready for attraction – not ready for anything emotional, when she still had trouble believing that all men _didn't_ have a penchant for emotional fuckwittage. _Stay poised. Stay calm! Oh, but he's so lovely…_

Snape shook his head and held his bag up, as if it were evidence of his hectic lifestyle. "Sorry – not today." Hearing his bluntness was refreshing, Hermione realised, and it brought her back down to earth. He was the same man – the same antisocial man, and of course she didn't _have_ to form an emotional attachment with anyone at all, did she? Finding someone attractive didn't mean that she was in _love._ She hadn't seen the man in years – finding him sexy and scrumptious and delicious really didn't mean a thing at all!

With that, she managed to put some words together. "Oh, of course! We just wanted to – we just wanted to say hello, after all. You were obviously having a conversation with Rosie and I interrupted, and, it really _is_ lovely to see you." _Stop. Now._

He smiled faintly, his eyes roving over her face. She had the sinking feeling that he must believe her to be utterly mad, but his attention thrilled her nonetheless.

"I should be getting home," he said simply. Then, miraculously, his polite façade turned considering, calculating. "Although… I do believe that perhaps I will… return. To this place. The bookshop," he tacked on, as if unsure of his welcome.

Hermione, unable to restrain herself, gave him a smile from ear to ear. Rosie, too, was gasping, though neither girl nor woman really comprehended just _why_ the stern looking man's answer inspired such happiness in them. In turn, Snape looked even more bewildered.

"Great!" said Rosie.

"Brilliant!" added Hermione.

Snape blinked. "Is it?"

"I'd like to think so," Hermione hurried to say, nodding quickly. "It's been such a long time. Are you well?" It was strange that she felt no discomfort at speaking to her former teacher. It had been almost twenty years since Hogwarts, and the seven years that she'd spent there were nothing compared to having a child, divorcing and living on her own. She'd experienced so much in her life that it felt like more of a pleasant surprise to come across Professor Snape on this windy afternoon.

He answered carefully, "I am well. As, judging by the appearance of you both, you are, too. But as I said, I should be—"

"Oh, right! Yes, of course. You've got work to do. But you'll…"

"You'll come back," Rosie demanded. "Won't you?"

Snape raised a hand to Hermione, as if to say that it was her decision. A wise choice, she thought approvingly, then fought off an inward squeal of delight. A sudden decision made her say, "We'll be here in a fortnight. Same time."

"Ah." He scratched at the back of his neck. "Perhaps I shall see you both, then."

With one last half-smile, the Professor turned and began to walk away again, only to pause before turning a corner. Hermione held her breath as he looked back over his shoulder. Beside her, Rosie waved and she raised her hand, watching with a beatific grin when he nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. To be the focus of his attention was thrilling and decadent, and she threw herself into it, holding his gaze until he mumbled something unintelligible to himself and loped off around the corner.

"He's important, isn't he?" asked Rosie. "He looks important."

"He was an important man, yes," Hermione said absentmindedly as she stared at the corner.

"No," Rosie huffed, dragging Hermione's attention back to her. "I think he's important to _us._ "

"Oh," said Hermione. "Well… he might be. He could be."

Her daughter took her hand. "I hope so."

Harnessing her pragmatic nature, Hermione refrained from commenting, but within her heart, she felt warmth and a new, welcome pressure. She hoped so, too.

.

.

"I shan't go."

He threw his bag over his shoulder and marched out into the valley. "I shall not go. Bloody ridiculous. Making a fool of myself all over again. Bloody buggering bookshop. I'll go another day."

It was dark; the sun had not yet risen. He began the long walk to the surrounding hills, stopping every so often to take a long drink from the thermos filled with milky coffee. "Who needs a bookshop, anyway? Not that one. Filled with shite, I'm sure, judging by everyone's skinny bloody pants. Bloody poncy youth of today." Another drink of coffee. "I won't go. No. Not I."

As he watched the sunrise, Severus planned just where in his house he could place a framed picture from this morning's expedition. The shots were magical – the Dales always were – and the house was too big for him regardless.

"Should bloody well sell the monstrosity," he muttered darkly.

He'd bought the four bedroom original house on a whim – at least, that was what he'd told himself. In truth, he just wanted somewhere to retreat to. A haven. And he'd found it all right, but it was _too big._

"Won't ever find someone to share it with me," he grumbled next, then spat out his next mouthful of coffee.

"No, no! No I bloody well won't. No, no. Ms hoity-toity Granger can stay in her castle with her lovely little lass and I don't want anyone in my bloody house at all. Too much mess, too much noise."

.

.

"I wonder where they're living these days… Divorced, isn't she… Wonder when Rosie's going to Hogwarts…"

.

.

When the last good shots were taken, Severus ambled slowly back down the hill. It was a Sunday, so there were no morning commuters walking to the nearby train station.

He stopped in at the village shop and bought the weekend paper from Alan Allwick, an unenthusiastic man who ran the till when Jeannie went to church. The men bonded for a while over weather and the tourist numbers, before Severus strolled back home.

By the time he made it to his front gate and sighed at the pleasant sight that was his garden, he was fully convinced that Ms Granger and her daughter would be more comfortable if they were to meet in the Dales instead of the bookshop. Besides, it wasn't as if he didn't have his own rather substantial library. Rosie could probably borrow a few books.

Provided she didn't damage them, of course.

.

.

A fortnight later, Severus stood on the street outside the People's Bookshop. He was nervous, and he _despised_ nerves. It made him feel tetchy and irate, but he was utterly perplexed when the feelings dissipated when he caught sight of the Granger girls walking towards him.

He stayed where he was. Hermione was saying something to Rosie, and the pair stopped while she rubbed at her daughter's cheek, inspecting it thoroughly before nodding with approval. Rosie was in her usual garb, jeans and warm looking jumper, but Severus spared all of his attention for Hermione. She was lovely, he thought, in functional brown skirt and flat black boots – _boots, boots, knee-high boots hooked around my waist_ – with a black, soft-looking jumper covering her upper body.

He didn't know what to do, and he detested it. Should he… Should he shake their hands? Escort them inside? Ask them to visit his home immediately? Would they like it? It seemed vitally important that they liked the Rose Cottage a few miles out of Dent. He didn't know _why_ it was so crucial, but suspected that it was something to do with how attractive he found the smile upon Hermione's lips, and how he wanted to talk again with her daughter, and with her. He simply wanted, and if the past was anything to go by, he wanted too many things.

Which could not be helped, if he were honest. Already he felt as if the pair anchored him in some way – he'd treated their absence over the last two weeks as something to be _tolerated,_ rather than a natural space of time between meetings.

One stunted conversation, one awkward exchange of words, two shakes of his hand and a countless amount of honest, wideset smiles, and he was a lost man. Utterly, utterly lost.

.

.

They took the stairs one at a time. Rosie was bounding up them, her hair whipping around the banisters as she continued ever higher, but Hermione was lost. They were talking, she knew, about the bookshop and how she'd come across it in the first place, but she could barely manage to string words together. Severus was staring at her through his glasses, his serious black eyes on hers, and his hand was on the small of her back. She could feel the heat of it through the soft cashmere; could it be, that his palm was softer than the material? She could have sworn that it was.

The fortnight between visits had been fraught with insecurities, uncertainties and wine-induced rambling. She'd thrown herself into work and had even found herself chatting with the other mothers at the school each morning – anything to take her attention away from Severus Snape.

How on earth had it come to this? That she'd found him by chance in the bookshop, then managed to have him plan to see her again?

Had they organised a _date?_

Surely not, with Rosie there, she'd reasoned one weekend night while Rose was at her father's. Surely it wasn't a date – they had a chaperone! A red-haired Weasley chaperone, to boot! And she wasn't ready for dating.

Or was she? The subject was moot, she'd discovered later that same night as she lay in bed, her skin damp from stroking herself into sweet oblivion. She hadn't done it while imagining Ron's steady thrusts, nor had she summoned up an old image of Viktor, his hands shyly caressing her breasts, her thighs.

No, no. Hermione had trumped all of her fantasies and thrown herself into picturing Severus, his head of almost-grey hair between her legs, his sharp tongue lapping like a cat at cream.

It was marvellous; she was unprepared for her body's response, for her pounding heart and cries of completion. And now she had him here, in the stairwell, breathing the same air, hips touching as they climbed the stairs.

It was all she could do not to trip on the stairs, so distracted was she.

At last they reached the door to the bookshop. Ted looked up when the bell above the door rang and he smiled, a knowing, too-smug smile, yet it was second nature for Hermione to return it, cheeks flushed. It was as if she were a girl again – her thoughts were muddled, her breath was short, all due to how her body was responding to the man beside her.

Severus inclined his head and said, "Shall we go in?"

She looked up at him to see that he was watching Rose, not her, but he glanced down with soft ebony eyes. Reluctantly, Hermione made a sound of agreement (that sounded, to her ears, more like a love-sick sigh) and he frowned. Only faintly, a tiny crease that deepened the line carved between his eyebrows, but it threw her off enough to shake her head and clear her throat. "Yes, yes," she said hurriedly. "I'm sure Rosie already has an armful."

"Like her mother," he commented. She almost stopped in her tracks then, hearing the tender note that he placed on _'mother'._ She thought it would have put him off, her having a child— _him,_ of all men, given his taste for petulance and spite—but the way he said it made it sound like she had done something grand, something wonderful. She wanted to protest; she'd only given birth, she'd say, all the rest is Rosie. And yet she took his words on, allowing his unsaid praise to settle into her mind.

 _He likes that I'm a mother. He isn't intimidated or envious or insecure. He likes that she's my girl, that she is of my body._

She saw him anew then, and grinned. "Come and see the travel section," she said, not courageous enough to take his hand but directing with her chin to the left. "There's one in particular that I think you'll like."

"Oh?"

"I hope so," she said, biting down on her lip to stifle a pleased smile. It felt intimate, this act of recommending a book – she'd bought it for her coffee table at home in Lancaster, one of the first indulgences she'd allowed herself in years. Sharing it with him felt like she was guiding him into her sitting room instead of a dusty corner of the bookshop, and her finger pointed to the thin hardback with photographs of the North Yorkshire Moors. "I mean, of course it's not for everyone. It's a bit dour really… Might not be your cup of tea, but I find that all of the heather is just stunning…"

Severus turned it over in his hands, studying the back cover. His expression gave nothing away. He looked up at her and arched an eyebrow. "Do you?"

"Do I what?" she asked, staring at his mouth.

He gave a little huff. "Do you think that the heather is _stunning_?"

"Oh." Hermione grinned, two spots of pink on her cheeks. "I do – I love it. I've only been once, to the Moors, but I'd like to go again. Actually, there was a blurb on the back about there being another." She held her hands out for the book. "I'll show you, they're planning another, in the—"

"—In the Dales?" he finished amiably, tapping his fingers on the cover. "I know."

"Oh!" she said, dismayed that she seemed to have sacrificed verbosity for little sounds that conveyed her interest in him far too obviously. His words slot into place soon after she realised that he was apparently waiting for her to speak next. "How do you know?"

"Ah," he said, pushing the book back to its rightful place. "Some of my photographs will be in it."

" _Your_ photographs?" demanded Hermione, aware that her opinion of him had just kicked up a few notches. Silently she compiled a list: _Single, intelligent, good with Rose, attractive, creative, published!_ "How wonderful!" she continued, reaching for his sleeve. "It must be fantastic to have that sort of recognition."

He glanced down at where she'd grasped the fabric at his wrist, stopping just short of touching his skin but indicating her desire to simply be _closer._ Shyly, she withdrew, though it warmed her to watch him turn his hand over, as if he were examining some physical evidence of her proximity. Had he felt her nearness, she wondered? Had his skin tingled?

"It was a competition," he muttered, downplaying his part. "The person who runs the photography classes is the one putting the book together."

Suddenly breathless, she turned her head and searched for Rose, finding her over near the biographies. "I'm happy for you," she said, when she returned her attention to him.

Wonderingly, Severus opened his mouth to speak then closed it. His eyes darted to their feet and back to her face. "Yes," he said slowly, cautiously, "you do seem to be." It puzzled him, she saw, and she smiled.

"Genuinely, yes. I am."

He did not question her – he didn't seem to wish to, and it thrilled her, that he took her words and gave them truth.

"Well," he said next, a slow sideways smile on his mouth, "shall I show _you_ a book?"

Without thinking, she blurted, "You've never been here before! What on earth could you show me?"

His strong, slim shoulders rolled. He smirked and said, "Oh, I'm sure I can think of something. Come on, then."

He took her hand, and his skin was warm.

.

.

"And then," Rosie said, spooning more cream into her mouth, "I fell _into_ the water!"

Hermione spluttered and stared with eyes fit to bust at the quietly chuckling man sitting beside them on the bench. _He'll think I'm a bloody harpy!_ "Rosie!"

Her daughter paid her no mind. "So _Mum_ got down a little bit on the edge of the rock and held her arms out—"

"—Rose!"

"—and fell in, too!"

 _Shit. Double shit. Any shreds of composure that he thought I might have are, surely, gone._ She groaned, mortified. "It was windy!"

Their companion stared at her from over Rosie's auburn head. With a chip halfway to his mouth, Severus shouldn't have been able to make her feel like a girl in trouble again, but his arched brows managed to do just that. The only comment he made was a light, "And did both maidens survive such an ordeal?" before popping the chip between his lips.

She let herself be carried along by his obvious enjoyment of the afternoon. It both delighted and tormented her – that he could accept their company without batting an eyelid, when she herself was filled to the brim with images of herself swooning and following him around like a deranged puppy. The book he'd suggested for her, a slim volume about the Orkneys, was digging into her hip, a reminder that he'd thought of her, considered her. Following his lead, Hermione had another bite of fish. "Thankfully it was summer in Dover; we were fine. The only thing hurt was my pride."

Rosie put in gleefully, "And Mum swore that we'd never go fishing again. Do _you_ fish, Severus?" She made a little slurping sound as she worked on finishing the iced chocolate.

Severus snorted. "I do not. I am not… outdoorsy."

"Besides your photography," Hermione said.

"There is that." Snagging another chip, he shrugged. "Walking is fine, hills are, at times, bearable, but I have some…" He bounced his right knee up and down. "…troubles with anything faster than a ramble."

Forgetting herself, she asked quickly, "I didn't know that you still had lasting problems from the war – why haven't you—ah. Sorry." Expecting him to take offence at her blatant curiosity, Hermione was pleasantly surprised when he merely shook his head.

"Magic can't fix everything," he said blandly, his lips forming a flat line of acceptance. "It's only a knee, after all."

Rosie looked up at him, smiling widely. "That's what Mum always says! Magic can't fix everything. We don't use it," she declared, "so we know a lot about that."

"Oh?" said the Professor, nodding when Hermione offered him a few tissues to wipe his hands. Determined to ignore how the nerves knotted within her at where the conversation was leading, Hermione stared resolutely at the river. She didn't want to talk about Rosie's magic – didn't want to know if another man had problems with it, or felt threatened by something abnormal in their society. The Professor Snape that she knew (had she really ever known him? Probably not) in the past might have insulted Rose, or ignored her entirely. Then, blinking, she realised that she had entirely missed the exchange that she'd been attempting to ready herself for.

"You aren't magical, then," said Severus, glancing at Hermione from under his black lashes. She met his eyes and made no comment. _Don't ruin this, not now,_ she pleaded silently. _I've only just found you – don't make me give you up…_

"Not at all," Rosie answered. "There's nothing. And it's all right, you know."

He looked down at the young girl, frowning. "Is it? Is it all right with _you?_ "

It was an interesting turn of phrase, Hermione thought, but it warmed her all the same. Rosie sighed. "It's rather disappointing. But there's nothing I can _do_ – I don't have magic, and that's that."

"Hmmnnn," said Snape, leaning back on the bench. "Curious."

Rosie chose that moment to tip the rest of the drink into her mouth and snatch a handful of chips before she rose and wandered over to look at the trees. Hermione stayed where she was, unsure of herself. Would he want to talk? Surely not – they'd only just—

"Your daughter's situation is unfortunate."

"Yes," she allowed, swivelling around to fold up one knee in order to face him fully. He was preoccupied with cleaning his glasses.

"She's very young for you to be so sure, is she not?"

"No. There was a test released about seven years ago that is very reliable; Rosie was tested when she was almost five. At Ron's insistence," Hermione tacked on, frowning. "But I knew. I've always known."

Directing his words to the soft black cloth that he was rubbing over the lenses, Severus said lowly, "And I assume that you have done your share of crusading on her part."

The line was delivered with such nonchalance that she could only snort, then clap a hand over her mouth. He looked up at her and cocked an eyebrow, urging her on. "Oh," she said, waving a hand in the air. "Just a divorce. And a sea-change, so to speak. And a change of occupation. But really," she pressed, laying her palms on the bench space between them so she could push forward slightly, increasing their proximity, "it's not crusading. It's different, this… this parenting, being a mother. She's not a _cause._ "

"No," he agreed, screwing his mouth up. The befuddled expression made her give a little huff of pleasure – he looked, for lack of a better word, _adorable._ Sitting together on the bench, her daughter meandering around, the older man beside her mulling over the state of her magic, Hermione felt… _relaxed._ Comfortable.

"I didn't know," muttered Severus, clearing his throat with a _'herrrrmmph.'_ "About her magic. If I'd known, I wouldn't have asked."

"I know! It's nothing to be ashamed about. There's nothing _wrong_ with her."

Bristling, he said, "I'm not suggesting that there is. Christ, she doesn't have magic – like the majority of the rest of the damn world. She's not normal, she's not wrong – she just _is._ She _exists._ Why would you even assume that I'd think there was something _wrong_?"

 _Why indeed, Granger? And to think – you were worried about_ him _putting his foot in it, when you've done that spectacularly on your own! You've buggered it now._ She blinked, feeling weak in the face of his passion, for she saw it now: this trait of being quick to anger, of slipping into blunt language. Severus Snape was _passionate._ The discovery was positively electrifying.

Barely managing to organise her thoughts, Hermione mumbled, "Sorry. It wasn't about _you_ , not particularly anyway. I'm just…"

He squinted then growled, shoving his glasses back on as he shuffled closer. "Used to it."

"I suppose."

They stared at each other. She registered the atmosphere between them, her belly twisting with satisfaction when he frowned and reached forward to bat away strands of her unruly hair from her face. His frown then turned on her, daring her to comment on his forwardness. She did so silently, granting him a blissful grin. Awkwardly, Severus scratched at his neck. "It is getting late."

"Oh." Disappointment slammed into her and her shoulders sagged. "Of course."

"That's not what I meant," he grumbled, standing abruptly. Scowling, he demanded, "I'd like you and Rose to come over for tea. Now. At my home. Tea." He turned around and hissed a quiet, _"Bollocks!"_ Hermione chortled, suddenly feeling shy.

He whipped back to face her and thrust his hand out. As if it were second nature, he called out, his eyes never leaving hers, "Rosie! We're going."

"But I haven't even agreed!" she protested laughingly, still caught between giggling at his obvious ineptness and squawking at his presumption. The giggles won out though, and Rosie sidled up to them, looking up importantly at Severus.

"Where are we off to, then?"

Severus said nothing. He looked at Hermione, tilted his head, and reached for her again. She grinned, dazed, and said to Rose, "Very well. We're going to Severus'. For tea. Would you like that?"

"Oh," breathed Rosie, bending to grab her books from the bench. "May I see your library?"

"How'd you know I had one?"

"Just did," she shrugged, winding one arm around her mother's waist. "Why else would we be going to your house?"

"Ahherrmmm…" Severus broke off and grabbed Hermione's hand. "On three," he said, allowing one quick smile to spread over his lips. "One, two…"

.

.

"…three."

 _My house is full,_ he thought, staring at the two young women. They had arrived behind his makeshift laboratory in the garden, a small former outhouse that he'd spent a few weeks in, making it new again inside. He often chose to Apparate here when returning home; no matter what kind of day he'd had, he could always look up at his home and dismiss any negative cards that fate had dealt. In addition, it would keep the Pardoes next door from keeling over – their neighbour popping into existence might just be a bit too much for the elderly couple.

And, he reasoned, if it made Hermione give a tiny little, "Oh!" and Rosie squeak with surprise, then that was wonderful. He looked over at the witch, still hardly believing that she was here – how had they gone from the disastrous days of the war, to stumbling upon each other close to twenty years later? How had he managed to ignore the girl that wore knee-high socks and both lived for, and was terrified of, his attention and praise? Surely she was there, buried within this quietly self-assured woman, but he didn't even _care._

It surprised him, this lack of self-made obstacles. He could've looked at her face that afternoon a week ago and returned home to drink himself into oblivion, cursing the reminder of the war.

Truthfully, such a thing had not even entered his mind. The thrill of her closeness, the slow, languid delight he felt at the easy acceptance of his person by her daughter, could not be ignored.

Severus liked children. Or rather, they did not particularly concern him; they were simply there, and sometimes, like a treasure chest, they'd open their mouths and the most interesting little things would pour out. Children intrigued him, though he knew that he'd never know how it felt to have one of his own, to watch his woman's belly ripen. He'd mourned that, long ago, though not for many years now.

Teaching had been far more sufferable than he'd led others to believe. If he'd been able to do things differently, _live_ differently, he might have been a respected teacher, rather than a feared one. Oh, it paid to keep an austere, rigid environment within Potions, and a teacher that fronted the DADA classroom and didn't instil reality in his students was a failure, but he would've been less… Less. He would've been less.

Rosie wasn't a chance to do things better – she wasn't an experiment, a test. But she was here, and her mother was here, and he liked the way the Granger girls linked arms and looked up at him with trusting eyes. More than that, he liked that they were here, in his garden. For all of its strangeness, its newness, it felt comfortable.

"Shall we?" he said, filled with the sudden and unexplained hope that they might choose to just never leave at all. He tried to imagine how quiet the big house would be when they left, but found that he couldn't.

Hermione nodded and they headed through the cared for garden, pausing at the door to the original stone home. He let them in with a key, one hand on the witch's elbow to guide her through the wards.

 _My house is full._


	3. Chapter 3

_One more chapter to go after this. My apologies for taking a while to upload each chapter - I've been having a bit of trouble with this site for a few days now!_

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

The request came suddenly. He was unprepared, but floored.

"Severus?" Rosie had said, the night she'd come with Hermione for the first time to his home. All three of them were in the library, the fire going with freshly made cups of tea held in every pair of hands. He was sitting on the couch, his long limbs stretched out as he pondered how small Hermione was, sitting beside him. Surely she would only just fit under his chin. Rosie was alternating between folding her body up into one of the comfortable armchairs by the fire and inspecting his books. He was enjoying it; she looked natural here, and he liked it.

"Yes?" Severus felt Hermione's eyes on him, though he did not meet her gaze. He was more concerned with memorising the curve of her delicate ankles; her boots had long been discarded near the front door and her stockinged feet seemed tiny next to his. He thought about how it might feel to run his fingers down her legs; cup her ankle; tease each toe.

Rosie drew breath and asked firmly, "Would you teach me potions?"

 _What?_

Hermione's mouth clicked open. Her hand flew to her lips. "Rosie…"

"What?" demanded the daring girl, slotting a book back between its neighbours. "Can't I ask—"

"Rose!" Hermione turned to him; he hadn't organised his thoughts and she grimaced, noting the surprised arch of his brow. "I'm sorry, Severus. I haven't – we haven't… It's not… What I mean to say is," she mumbled, "is that we didn't organise this. I didn't intend to…to…"

He felt awkward in the face of her discomfort. _I would ruin it. Teaching her would ruin it. They'd never come back here again._ But then the witch flushed, and he saw a flash of hope in her eyes. _And yet… if, perchance I did not ruin it, then…_ He looked around the room, allowing tantalising images to fill his mind: Hermione leaning against the door, her lips shining from his kisses; Hermione again, curled up on the couch under his arm, tucked into his side; Rosie, sprawled on the carpet in front of the fire, a heavy tome open before her.

The desires warred within him – to decline and ergo save them from how he'd destroy the fledgling connection that he was already clinging to, or to do it. To teach Rosie, to give her something priceless, something indescribable.

He cleared his throat and said gently, "I'll think about it, Rose. I'd _like_ to think about it," he added quickly, carefully. The girl's face lit up and his chest swelled. Hermione let out a little quiet huff of laughter. He turned to her and shrugged in the face of her apologetic smile. "It's all right," he said. "I _will_ think about it."

The wild-haired woman shook her head, that disarming smile of happiness back on her mouth. Her lips were the colour of the roses in his garden. "You don't need to, you know. I don't want you to feel obligated."

"Hrrmm," he dismissed, patting the soft material of the couch. "I don't feel obligated." Then, needing to change the subject, he said, "Did you know that I'm a retired teacher?"

"Oh?" she teased, her eyes gleaming. " _Are_ you? Of what?"

"Chemistry," said he, crossing his arms. "And the odd relief class of Biology."

"Mmmm," she hummed, smirking. "No foolish dabbling in the arts, then?"

Severus could only grin.

.

.

Hermione was still chastising herself a week later. She'd left Severus' home not long after Rosie had asked him about teaching her, and the witch knew damn well that the man had seen through her smiles. She was disappointed; not with her daughter, there was no point in that, but just with…

She sighed. Rosie was in bed, and she herself should've gone to sleep an hour ago. But here she was, staring at the ceiling, snug within the blankets.

 _He'll think I only wanted to see him because of this. That's what he'll think. That I wanted something from him, and that I went to him only so I could take it. It—his potions knowledge, his teaching career. He knows that I respected him then, that I learnt more from him than anyone. He'll be thinking that I jumped at the chance to weasel my way in, to get something out of meeting him that day in Durham._

Hermione groaned, rubbing at her eyes. Try as she might, she couldn't forget how surprised he'd been, how wrong-footed he must've felt. And fair enough! Rosie did nothing by halves and her daughter had turned her hopeful eyes on the older man – even her mother had been affected, daring to hope for a fraction of a second that perhaps, just perhaps, he might say yes.

Her mum would've handled it. Hermione snorted, thinking of how Jean would've commanded the conversation so seamlessly that neither man nor child would've understood why the former felt in control, and the latter felt brave. _Mum will think I'm daft. Thirty six, and I've been cowering here for a week!_

It was Friday. Rosie was due at Ron's for the weekend, she'd take her in the morning. And after that… after that… Hermione swallowed, turning over in bed. The streetlamps were a dull yellow; their soft light illuminated her fingers, which were flexing into the covers. After that, she'd either write to Severus, or she'd… she'd…

.

.

"Oh for _shit's sake!_ " She'd Apparated into mud. "Fuck! Double, triple fuck! Fuckity fuck fuck – _bugger!_ " It was charmed mud. "Severus!" Her aim was so off that she'd arrived outside of the main wards, near the side of the house that butted onto the street. There was a telephone box on the other side of the road but, knowing herself to be unheard and unobserved, she risked grabbing her wand. The otter shot out playfully but she batted it away, jerking it into the cottage with a growl. _That's it. I'm done for. Am destined to stay on the shores of singledom, covered in mud._

She heard, rather than saw him, approach. It was all she could do not to laugh, though a few giggles escaped anyway.

"Bloody fucking village idiots – making me charm the damn mud and then she goes and gets bloody well stuck in the bloody thing! Of all the things – now she'll never – bollocks. _Bollocks!_ " Severus rounded the corner and caught sight of her, knee-deep in mud so thick that she couldn't move. She stuffed a fist in her mouth, apparently succeeding in looking vexed instead of fighting the urge to cackle. "Blimey," he breathed, coughing awkwardly. "Morning."

She cleared her throat. "Good morning."

"I, uhm… I was not expecting visitors. You. I wasn't expecting you." He winced.

"No," she agreed.

Severus waved a hand at the mud. "It's charmed, you see," he said, adjusting his glasses. "When I first moved here years ago, a group of gormless little shites from a few towns over tried to break in. Must've seen the advertisements when it was for sale and thought they'd still be able to get the nice equipment that the other owners had." He pointed at the mud again. "It's a deterrent."

"Oh. Well it's quite nice, compared to what I'd expect from you…"

He barked out a laugh and tapped his nose. "It's like a moat. I've always wanted a moat." Shrugging, Severus waved his hand and the mud began to liquefy again. "Out you get now, and clean your wellies. You're a right mess."

Hermione curled her lip, for show rather than anything else, and waded out of the evidence that the fifty something man she was head over heels for was still just a boy at heart. "Cast the charm, would you? It's always more effective from someone else, and these boots are new."

"Are they?" he asked, a teasing note to his rumble of a voice. His eyes were warm, the skin surrounding them crinkling as his lips turned up. She tried to look away, but it was hopeless. "They're very nice."

"They do the job." _Ha! He likes them, he likes them! Oh, I wonder if he likes them better than the ones from last week? Don't be bloody stupid you twit - as if he was paying attention to your footwear!_ "Would you cast the charm?"

"Right." His cheeks coloured as his wand slid out of his back pocket. She trained her eyes on the pale skin of his wrist that emerged from under his jacket as his hand moved. One economical swish of his wand was aimed at her boots, and she smiled at the tingle she felt right down to her toes.

"Thank you," she murmured, nodding when he gestured for her to walk through the gate before him. And it was a good thing, too, because her heart was racing and her lips formed a blissful beam; his magic was _beautiful._ It was gentle, but power simmered under the surface. She wanted more of it, and she wanted more of him.

He dithered at the front door. "Would you prefer..."

"Oh," she said, catching his drift. "The garden? Yes."

He led the way to a small set of table and chairs; it was on an elevated part of the garden, and as she sat, Hermione released a satisfied sigh. "It's beautiful. Did you do it all?" It was full of spring bulbs, roses, shrubs and borders. The fence was low enough to see sections of the vast valley behind it. It was clever, she realised, this idea of buying a house with a small pocket of land that was right against sweeping farmlands. It gave the views, but lacked the tiresome maintenance.

"Some," he allowed, settling into one of the chairs before he stood up quickly again. "Tea?"

Hermione gathered her hair back, content beyond measure with this taciturn yet friendly man and his garden. "Please."

She fancied that he watched her fingers combing through her hair for a moment, though when she looked up he was already heading into the house, whistling under his breath. When he returned, it was to find her with her face tipped up to catch the sun. Hermione was exceedingly pleased to note that he stood behind her for a while, watching who or what she knew not, but she hoped beyond measure that he was watching her.

Recalling easily how she took her tea, Severus poured, added and stirred. "Here," he said, leaning over the table to hand her the cup. He took a seat as she sipped it.

"Lovely," she said, a reflex more than anything else. "Thank you."

He hummed and added more sugar into his own cup than she thought he usually had. She bit back a grin and considered whether she might begin the conversation, but the sun was too beguiling, too entrancing, and soon Hermione was basking in it again. Between sips of tea, she drank in the clear light and clean, fresh air.

"This is beautiful," she said eventually, returning to earth with a dazed, sated smile. Severus looked resplendent to her, in a nondescript navy jumper with a pair of grubby jeans. At her comment, he met her gaze; his eyes crinkled at the corners.

"It is. It is everything I wanted." Despite the meaning of the words, his eyes flicked to the roof, assessing, before they shot back to her. He shrugged. "I am fortunate."

"You certainly are. Though I must ask…" She flushed when he chuckled, delighting in the sound.

"I was wondering when the questions would begin," he explained.

"Oh. Well, they're here."

"I have been suitably prepared." He held up his cup. "Begin."

Granting him one pleased, sideways smile, Hermione said, "Tell me why you chose Yorkshire. I thought you were from Manchester."

"Not Manchester. Cokeworth – closer to Huddersfield. But close enough, in terms of dull Mill towns."

"So, why?"

He mulled it over for a moment, using one finger to push a stray hair from his eyes. His eyes were sharp and clear when they connected with hers. "When I left the castle, England wasn't how I'd remembered it. I'd been back and forth for summer holidays and the like, but hadn't left home much. When I returned for good, it wasn't … It wasn't the same." Severus screwed his lips up, then flattened them. "Shopping centres are everywhere – monstrosities, the lot of them. Everything is loud, everything is… chaotic. I wanted to be somewhere in the North, couldn't imagine going South." This wrought an exaggerated shudder from Severus, and a burst of laughter from Hermione. He grinned and continued with, "I visited the Dales, and they were perfect. The house became available not long after. And here I am."

"Here you are," she said, nodding. "That _is_ lovely. It's fate."

"If you say so."

"I do, I do. When did you buy the place? I didn't hear a thing about it."

He fixed her with his uncompromising stare. "Of course you didn't. There are ways of avoiding such things, and I wanted to avoid it. I've been here for seventeen years."

"Seventeen years!" she exclaimed, putting a hand to her chest. "How'd you manage to afford it so soon after the war? Oh." Hermione clapped her other hand over her mouth. "Bugger. Sorry."

He clicked his tongue, though there was something in his eyes that made her think he was amused. "Mustn't pry, Granger."

"Of course, of course. Sorry again."

Severus rolled his eyes. "If you must know—"

"No, I really mustn't! It's fine, really, god I've really put my foot in it haven't I."

"—I sued the Ministry."

Hermione blinked. "You what?"

Chuckling, Severus purred, "I sued. The. Ministry."

"No!"

"Yes."

"You didn't!"

"I did."

"Christ on a cracker!" It all fell into place. "That was you! That—that unidentified bloke who received the first lot of damages! You!"

"Me," he said, obviously chuffed. "One of my finer ideas."

"That's very American of you."

"Eh?"

"Nothing, nothing." She waved a hand. "Still, I must thank you – did you know that I managed to slip in a requirement for the Ministry to foot the bill for war pensions?" He shook his head, and she finished the last of her tea. "I did. About a year after you – Ron mentioned that he was thinking of taking the Ministry to task, too, and so we did it."

"You did it," he said pointedly.

Hermione tilted her head. "In a way. But it was his idea."

"That's very generous of you."

"Is it? It doesn't feel generous. Isn't it normal to acknowledge everyone's input?" She thought it might've felt strange to talk about Ron with Severus of all people, but it didn't. Good.

"I don't know," he replied, pouring them both another cup.

"Well, he's not stupid. Not that I'm saying that that's what you're implying," she hurried to add, noting his frown. "He's a tactical person – thinks things through, which would surprise many I suppose."

Severus hunched his shoulders and grumbled, "Doesn't really think everything through though, does he?"

Unsure, Hermione could only scratch her cheek absentmindedly. "True."

Her pensiveness seemed to kick-start something in him, for he stood quickly and extended a hand to her. "I'd like to show you something."

"Oh?" She beamed when their skin connected. "What?"

"The lab," he said simply. "I've expanded it inside. To teach Rosie."

.

.

When she left, he stood on the doorstep for half an hour, wondering why he hadn't kissed her. She'd dithered about, mumbling shyly about nice times and making more plans, but he hadn't kissed her.

Why?

He ran a hand over his mouth and trudged back inside. He felt a fool to suspect that it was too soon, yet there was no other explanation. He was attracted to her—intensely so—and the way that his skin tingled at her nearness was not something to ignore. He enjoyed talking to her; enjoyed her intelligence. He had felt a deep, satisfactory pleasure when she'd gasped and walked away for a moment to compose herself after he'd announced his plans about Rosie.

In fact, Severus considered, perchance the real root of the problem—not that it _was_ a problem in the end—was that he had fallen far too hard, much too soon. It might have been ridiculous and quite possibly stupid, but he wanted to draw it out even further. He wanted her more than shy – he wanted her flushed, lips parted, heart pounding. He wanted her mad with desire; wanted her to want him more than anything, the way he'd been every night this week.

There was a niggling thought in his mind that she might already be there, but…he had to _know._ It had to be real; had to be solid; raw; undoubtable. He scoffed at the idea that he was saving himself for some declaration from her – a better explanation would be that allowing whatever was between them to come to fruition in its own time was such a delectable option that he couldn't dismiss it.

.

.

At five to nine in the morning on the following Saturday, Severus stared at himself in the mirror with a critical eye. Loath to wear his teaching robes again, he had donned his frock coat, trousers and dragon-hide boots. When brewing alone, his preference was for a shirt and a garish looking apron and gloves, but he would be lying to himself if he didn't admit that he was playing up for the part just a tad. His grey head of hair was certain to soften his appearance in his austere garb, but he found that he didn't quite dislike it. He turned this way and that, and hummed to himself.

The clock on his bedroom wall ticked over. He flicked a tiny speck of lint away from his sleeve. It ticked again; a soft chime filled the air. Three minutes.

At two, Severus drew in a fortifying breath and strode out of the room, down the stairs and out through the hallway. At one, he stopped outside of the door to the shed that housed not only his private laboratory, but also the Granger girls.

At nine, he waved his hand. The door flew open with a bang.

.

.

Hermione squeaked as he came striding into the room. From the very back corner of the lab, where she was perched on a stool near the wall, she watched Professor Snape come to a halt at his desk. There was only room enough inside the lab for one long table—where Rosie was currently situated—and a desk in front of it. The walls were lined with cabinets and two sinks were in the opposite corner. Her body felt warm; her chest felt tight. _All of this,_ she thought with a breathless smile, _is for us. Oh, Severus. Where have you been hiding all of these years?_

She could recall with almost perfect clarity how she'd felt at the end of her first Potions lesson. At twelve, Hermione had still believed that teachers were somehow separate from regular adults, and so she hadn't thought to take his veiled insults and purred, condescending remarks, to heart. In truth, it hadn't been until the incident with her teeth that she'd wondered about him, wondered about why he was so awful.

By the time she'd benefitted under his instruction in DADA, Hermione was mature enough to wish that he'd always had the chance to teach the way he wanted to. He was magnificent to her – commanding, beguiling, powerful. And if she were to be removed from her skin, her organs, her senses and perceptions, if she were to be stripped down to her very bones, then she knew that _this_ is what she'd mourned. She wanted _this_ for Rosie – this _true_ , electrifying magic that didn't come from a wand.

And from her understanding, Rosie could do this – she could attend to a potion, doctor it to suit her needs, create meaning from a variety of ingredients. Severus had assured her that Argus had spent two mornings a month making his own personal stock of _Sober-Up!,_ with the only drawback being that it was less potent. There'd been more there, too, in his eyes – some history, some story, as to why he knew that her daughter, who would never see a light at the end of her wand, could brew. But Hermione hadn't asked. It had been left unspoken that she would, though, and that he would tell her, in time.

She stole a look at her daughter, and grinned with pride and happiness. Rosie was transfixed. Her eyes were wide, her fingers were gripping onto a quill with a focus that was so achingly familiar that for a moment, if her hair were wild and brown, Hermione thought she could have been looking at herself.

Severus opened his mouth to speak, and the witch held a hand to her chest, drawn into his spell.

"You are here," he began, his voice of silk reaching out and entrapping the two enraptured females, "to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making." Hermione held her breath; blood was roaring in her ears.

With his eyes fixed on Rosie, he continued. "As there will be no foolish wand-waving here, you may not believe this is magic. But I do expect that you will understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death." He paused, tilting his head. His black eyes softened as Rosie all but melted before him, completely taken in as she was. "You are," Severus said quietly, sneaking a quick, appreciative glance at Hermione in the corner before he returned his full attention back to Rose, "far more capable than other dunderheads that I have had to teach over the years. And now," he added, raising his voice as a blackboard appeared on the wall behind him, "we shall begin. Rose!" he barked, "Tell me the six P's of Potions making!"

Hermione winced – she herself had absolutely no idea what on earth he was talking about, and it was clear that because of his bewitching entrance, Rosie had been caught off guard. For a moment, the woman had a stomach of ice as she considered whether or not Severus had truly relaxed enough over the years to be able to teach her daughter… Was he still the man that smarted at the smallest thing? Would words like 'idiot' or 'foolish girl' slip from his lips?

She was wrong.

Severus cleared his throat and linked his hands behind his back. "The six P's of Potion-making," he said sternly, "are as follows. Proper Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance. Well? Why aren't you writing that down?"

But he cracked a smile then, as Hermione threw her head back and let out a peal of laughter that joined Rosie's joyous giggles.

.

.

The morning flew by in a haze of notes, ingredients and stirring techniques. Instead of Hogwarts, where the too-large syllabus had meant brewing began on the first day, Severus was free to sit down with Rosie and talk her through the basic process of potion-making. Hermione sat in the back, listening to his every word. It was tiresome and strange to be teaching again, but the girl was a sponge and for all that he huffed and frowned, he discovered that he really was enjoying himself.

They stopped for lunch, Severus changing his clothes and opting to Apparate them all into the village where the usual stodge was had as he fended off the locals, who were intent on discovering who his companions were, and just why they'd shown up with him of all men.

"It doesn't bother you?" Hermione asked, leaning forward in her chair. "I'd heard of this, you know."

"About Yorkshire? The endearing trait of uncovering all one's shortcomings, and telling you them?"

"Exactly that."

Severus grinned. "And you don't think that I, for one, might enjoy that?"

"Insults?"

"No," he said patiently, "honesty. No veils, no deceiving comments. Bluntness is refreshing."

"Ah," said Hermione, spooning up the last of her mashed potato. "You mean, it's good to be around people that speak using the same politeness as… you?"

The mock scowl painted onto his features. Rosie gave a little titter of laughter as she focused on spearing her peas one by one with her fork. "Finding the North a little difficult are you, love?" he purred, arching an eyebrow. "A bit too… rugged?"

Her cheeks coloured then, and she looked away. _Interesting,_ he thought, watching the blush as it stained her neck and chest. She wore her usual cardigan and jeans, and her breasts heaved just once as she struggled with whatever on earth it was that was running through her mind.

"No," she said in the end, clearing her throat. "I like it."

Rosie looked up at him, smiling. "We live in the North, Professor. I think you've got the wrong impression of us."

"Do you now?" he asked, surprised. "Where? Close-by?" He would've known if they were anywhere near him, he knew suddenly. The witch and her lass would've been under his roof if he had even the tiniest inkling of their proximity.

"No, no." Hermione dabbed the corner of her mouth with a serviette then used it to hide her smile when he dragged his roughly over his lips. "Actually," she declared, "we're in Lancaster. So not too far from here at all."

"Lancaster?" he echoed, puzzled. "Bollocks." Then, awkwardly, he tipped his head to the younger girl and said gruffly, "Sorry." He was relieved when Hermione only rolled her eyes.

"It's true!" Rosie cried, twirling along beside them as they walked out of the pub. "We live on Prospect Street, near the chippy, and near Mrs Wei's takeout shop. You can't miss our house. It's got a green door and—"

"Rose."

"Oh. Right." The two women shared a look. "What I mean to say is," Rosie said importantly, "that you should come over one day and see our house!"

Severus eyed them both from under his lashes and considered that he might just be at a disadvantage with these two conniving creatures. "I might just do that," he allowed, leading the way across the road, intending to take advantage of the lack of rain and take the walk to the Rose Cottage. "If you'd have me," he added.

Hermione laughed. Under her breath, she murmured, "Oh, I think we would."

Smirking slightly, he inclined his head. "It sounds like I am due for a visit, then."

They made their way away from the main cluster of homes in the village, and he snuck a glance at Hermione, who was looking over her shoulder every now and then, seemingly not used to walking around without watching for cars. She was relaxed as she strolled along, one hand reaching out every now and then to touch Rosie's hair or shoulder, and her eyes darting to his over her daughter's head.

It would be easy to get used to; a steady, thrumming ache in his chest hinted that he already had.

Rosie piped up then, distracting him with an earnest, "Professor Severus, sir?"

He snorted, amused. "Just Severus."

"I have to call you _something,_ " the girl said matter-of-factly. "You're my teacher!"

Hermione let out a little gurgle of laughter, and Severus chuckled. "Professor, then. If you absolutely must."

"Oh, I must! I simply must."

"On with it then, duck," he said, smiling down at her. "What is it?"

"Well," she said, allowing him to guide her over a fallen log, "I was just wondering…"

"Yes?"

She stopped and crossed her arms, frowning at the witch and wizard before her. "Can you teach me every Saturday? The ones that I'm not at Dad's."

Hermione sighed fondly. "I don't think that we can ask Severus to make that sort of commitment, darling. He's already said that he'll teach you – let's wait for him to tell us when he's available."

Rosie was crestfallen; he found then that the decision was easy. Besides, what else did he do on Saturdays apart from sleeping off a light hangover from visiting the pub each Friday evening? Severus tapped his nose and waved them on. As they continued to amble along, he said, "I am available, if your mother agrees."

"Oh, Mum, please!" The girl jumped up and down and clapped her hands. "Please, please! Pretty please with sugar on top!"

Severus guffawed, his lips twitching from the effort not to smirk proudly. "You're making a good case." He turned to Hermione, who was looking at him with wide, clear eyes. "What say you?"

The wild-haired witch shook her head; there was a faint smile on her lips, and it widened the longer they waited. Finally, she took one step closer to him and touched his cheek. "Where have you been hiding?" she whispered, pressing onto his skin as if to convince herself that he was a living, breathing man.

Severus let out a long breath. He glanced at Rosie, who had moved away to study an insect by the side of the road. Returning his gaze to Hermione, he could only shrug awkwardly, unaccustomed to such blatant admiration. "Here?" he offered, spreading his hands. "The Dales."

Without any further preamble, she darted forward and kissed his cheek, her lips warm and sweet. Stunned, he blinked. "What was that for?"

"Oh," she murmured, touching a finger to her mouth, blushing furiously. "I just… Well… I…"

"I…?" he prompted, wondering how he could get her to kiss him again. "What is it?"

It spurred her on, and she stood before him and trembled just once before blurting, "I like you, Severus. Very much. And I'm rather terrified that you might not like me in return."

For a moment, he could only stare at her. His mind was spinning and for the life of him, he couldn't reach out and grasp one single strand, one single way of responding to her confession. It floored him, left him without breath, without conscious thought.

"Severus?" she was whispering, mortified. "Bugger it all... I've done it now, haven't I?"

"No!" he managed to exclaim, grabbing her hands. "You haven't—you're not—I haven't… Gods' fuck," he swore, delighting in the way her brown eyes gleamed at his ineptness. "I'm not…" he tried again, wincing. "I'm not good at this. I've never… that is to say, this is new to me, and what I want to say is that you shouldn't…" Severus huffed. "You shouldn't be terrified, witch."

"Not ever?" she repeated, grinning brightly.

He smirked, relieved. "No."

"Right. All right, then."

"Right," he echoed, feeling his mouth tingle as he considered whether or not he could get away with kissing her then and there. Rosie made an interested 'coo' then, and Severus turned to watch her heading in the opposite direction, entranced by a chirping bird in a nearby tree. "Time to go, duck," he called, waving a hand. "If you dawdle, you'll only take time off your lesson."

Rosie squeaked and came running back, passing them both, her hair of fire streaming out behind her.

"We'll never catch her now," mused Hermione, squeezing his hand. "Shall we?"

He nodded, sparing a glance for their linked fingers. _This is new,_ he thought, smiling at his pale fingers that were wrapped around her golden hand.

.

.

Three days later, a silver doe appeared in her living room, answering her otter's earlier request. Hermione sighed at the beautiful creature and gathered her coat and bag before Apparating away, concentrating on one of York's quiet side-streets. It was early evening, and she was due in Exeter to pick up Rosie in just over an hour, but she was bursting at the seams to see him, to hear his voice, feel the touch of his hand.

She saw him standing beneath one of the overhanging buildings on The Shambles, his long figure hunched as he leant against the stone. When he caught sight of her, he straightened and shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Hello," she said, eyeing him shyly. She considered kissing him, but he seemed content with giving her a flash of a serious, crooked grin before turning slowly and allowing her to walk along the historic street with him.

"Good evening," he returned simply.

"Is this all right?" she asked, nervous now that he seemed reticent. They walked together slowly, until she took hold of her courage and curled her fingers around his bicep, leaning into his body. He stiffened, but gathered her in, his arm around her shoulders.

"I wouldn't have come if it wasn't," he said, looking down at her. "Pub?"

She nodded and smiled, letting him lead her away from the street to a newer pub within a restored Tudor building. When they were settled with a pint each on the table, Severus finally sighed and gave her a look that spoke of stories. "I think I should tell you about my mother," he said, drawing deeply from the beer. She could only nod, terribly curious that she was.

"Go on."

Severus stared down into his drink. Hermione watched him, aware all of a sudden that he felt awkward with the intimacy of the conversation. She reached a hand across the table and touched his arm. "You don't have to tell me, you know. There's no rule that says we have to talk about anything and everything."

He plucked her hand from his sleeve and linked their fingers together, now staring at his long pale fingers wrapped around hers instead of his drink. "She was no more than a squib, by the end," he muttered, his grasp tightening on her hand. "She'd long stopped using magic by the time I went to Hogwarts – early on my father had her using the odd warming charm, or anything to alleviate the cost of keeping us. But one of the men noticed how comfortable it always was inside, and even that stopped. In the end, the only thing she could do was brew."

"What did she brew?"

He shrugged. "The odd sobering potion – only when she could get it into him unnoticed. Sleeping draughts." His cheeks coloured and he raised the glass, speaking behind it before he took another mouthful, "Acne solutions."

Hermione was amused enough to laugh, though she soon dropped her head and sighed. She could hardly understand the environment Severus grew up in; the house, yes, she could grasp how one would end up _there._ But the years spent wasting away inside of it, holding court in a kingdom of dismay… It wasn't her place to wonder why Eileen had never left, but she did wonder, and she did grimace when he prodded her hand, waiting for her to meet his eyes.

"Sorry," she mumbled. "Wool-gathering."

He looked at her directly. "He was older than her when they married; despite the drink, she was content with it, in her own way. By the time it worsened, she was simply… waiting for him to die."

The breath left her in a huff. "And what of you?"

Severus turned his head away. "He died when I was in my second year. I had Mam to myself until the middle of seventh year. She couldn't do any magic then – only weak attempts at strengthening solutions. I had a point with this, Hermione."

"Oh?"

"Rosie's magic isn't so much not-present, as it is unavailable. It's there, in her blood, but there's something missing, some reason why A doesn't connect with B. I've never studied it further to know more about it, but—"

"Yes. That's what the test was all about. One day I'll bring over what I've managed to find," she offered.

"Please." Severus nodded, thoughtful. "Mam lost her magic, but there were still things she could _do._ Rosie won't be able to do everything—certainly not charmed potions—but there'll be brews from every year in Hogwarts that'll work by her hand. Less effective, but they'll work."

Hermione smiled at his honest, quiet attempt to do what he could for her daughter. When he caught her smile, he returned it, his own threaded with a slight note of triumph. "See," he remarked, setting down his empty glass. "It'll work."

"I really can't thank you enough."

"I think you can, love," he said easily, the endearment sliding into her heart with the same gentleness that it appeared at the end of his sentence. Her eyes must have widened, for he gave a self-conscious roll of his shoulders and cleared his throat. "Have another pint. That's thanks enough."

"A cider," she allowed, beaming at him. "Thank you, Severus. You're quite amazing, you know."

She could only chortle merrily as the sharp looking man scoffed disbelievingly, and made his way back to the bar.

.

.

* * *

 _Disclaimer: Severus' speech is, of course, slightly altered from the original canon version in 'The Philosopher's Stone', JKR._


	4. Chapter 4

_Thank you so much to all who have read & reviewed this story. It's so lovely to have this supportive community here. I hope you enjoy this last chapter. Original prompt details are at the end. _

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Rose Cottage was quiet at this early hour. Severus let himself in and toed off his boots, standing at the entry for a moment to savour the warmth of his home. From here, he could see one of Rosie's vibrant green scarves hung up in the mud room, and Hermione had forgotten an older, ratty coat that she'd used the week before when teacher and student had needed an assistant for a recent brew. He set his camera bag down carefully, glad of the rolling mist that was now recorded within the memory of both his mind and his memory card.

Further down the hallway, there was a striped Dr. Suess book that had been placed carefully on the table that housed some of his Muggle telephone and address book. A spare pair of boots were nestled next to the wall, next to where his own landed.

Four lessons had been had in the laboratory in the garden, and already his home truly looked lived in. Severus took in the scene and drew in a deep, satisfied breath. He let it out in one quick gush of air and, sure of his privacy, laughed until he needed tea to fortify himself, lest he shout at the sky, thanking whatever existed above that had filled his home.

.

.

"I'd like to tell you something, Mum," said Rose, standing at the doorway while she watched Hermione pulling on a cardigan and scarf. They were readying themselves for the fortnightly Apparation to the Burrow and it was raining. The sky was grey and dull.

Hermione blew a curl out of her eyes and dragged her hair into a bun. "What is it, love?" She paused at the door, waiting.

Rose took one fortifying breath in. "I just wanted to say that I think Severus is a very nice man."

"Oh." The witch beamed and self-consciously adjusted her scarf. "Do you?"

"I do," said her daughter, turning to open the door.

Hermione felt her chest fill with warmth and love as she watched Rosie begin to walk towards their intended Apparation spot. Locking up and trotting after the girl, she grinned and said, "Well, I think he's a very nice man, too."

The precocious girl gave her a withering look. "Oh, Mum – I _do_ know that. I'm not _blind._ "

Letting out a titter, Hermione rolled her eyes. "Such cheek!" she exclaimed, squeezing her daughter's arm. Then, unable to stop herself, she blurted, "But you know that if you're uncomfortable with Severus beginning to spend some time here, or us there, then you need only mention it."

For her careful attempt at instilling surety in her daughter, Hermione was gifted with an exasperated growl and a face full of snarling, flame-haired girl. "Mum! Honestly! I like him. Besides, it's not like Dad doesn't have Lavender. You should have someone for you, too. And Mum?"

"Yeees?"

"Sometimes I think we should just go and live with Severus. He's got such a nice garden!"

"How on earth did you come up with that idea?" Hermione spluttered, shaking her head at her daughter's audacity. "These are early days, love, and—" she cut herself off. The idea, though shocking, almost overwhelmed her. She ran a hand over her hair, sure that her cheeks were redder than the pomegranate seeds she'd crushed with them the week before. It wasn't an unwelcome suggestion, she considered within herself, but one that she was entirely unprepared for.

She sighed pensively, wondering whether or not he'd received her hastily penned owl this morning, inviting him over for a last-minute dinner. Regardless, it was a good thing that she didn't know yet – she could certainly do without appearing at the Burrow with clammy palms and breathless excitement.

Dragged back to reality by her daughter's haughty little cough, she blushed again.

"Mum," Rose said, pulling her into the shadows of the nearest alley, " _relax._ Just _breathe._ And don't splinch us, please."

Laughing, Hermione gathered the girl into her arms. "Never, darling."

.

.

The rain gathered strength as he read the short, to-the-point missive. Rivulets of water rain over the windows then were whisked away at the ledges, splattering over his garden. It was a useful charm; seventeen years in the Dales had given Severus enough time and water to develop it, and he watched it at work now, as he clutched the piece of Muggle paper in his fingers.

He knew as soon as he'd read the first line that he would go to her. Had she thought, even for one moment, that he could resist? He moved slowly into the kitchen and laid his palms on the bench as he stared out of the window. The sky began to darken and Severus caught a glimpse of his reflection, of his lips curved into an anticipatory, wolfish smirk.

The smugness of his expression took his breath away; for an instant, he allowed his mind to wander, to meander away from his control. If he only had her in his arms, he thought, he could begin…

Oh, how would he begin?

Severus' fingers tightened their grip on the strong, cool wood. Tightness slithered its way down his spine until it caught, striking flint and steel within his belly. How would he begin? His tongue slid over his lower lip, wetting it as he thought of dragging the tender flesh of her earlobes between his lips. In the kitchen, his head tipped back and a groan spilled from his mouth at the idea of pressing a kiss to her jaw, her cheek, her lips.

He was aroused—painfully so—and he took no shame from it, from his body reacting to the mere idea of her. He wanted her curls brushing his bare chest; her breasts and their tightened buds rubbing on the trail of black hair that led ever downwards on his stomach. He wanted her mouth around him, enveloping him inside wet, snug heat.

Raising one palm to his cheek, he pressed it down firmly, imagining her touch, the ghost of a laugh. He gave into it then and dragged his hand down his body, cupping himself as he pictured her and her welcome, ever-ready smile. He imagined her breath, hot in his mouth as she kissed him, her body now perched on the bench before him, her legs and those damnable boots hooked around his hips, digging into the skin of his buttocks. He imagined her fingers curving, nails scratching, breath catching. He saw her then, as clear as he saw the letter written by her very hand that had fallen to the tiled floor.

Severus moaned, hardly daring to indulge but slid his palm under the open waistband of his jeans without further hesitation. He stroked himself, eyes half-lidded as his mind replaced his fist with her sex.

He was melting into her; he was drowning because of her.

"Hermione…" he breathed, and then he gasped, entirely lost.

.

.

Prospect Street, Severus decided, was an apt name now, but doubtlessly it was ironic when it was first established. Here was the North – grimy houses shoved up against each other, sharing walls, their doors plonked right beside the road. The street snaked around and went on and on, past where his eyes could discern an end.

It was Spinner's End, and it wasn't.

The uniform rows of houses made something within him turn and flip uncomfortably. The dark, depressing greyness of the road and stone revolted him. For a long moment, he stood and considered whether he even wanted to continue walking down the street to find the house with the green door, but then a door opened somewhere, and he blinked.

Light from the open doorway filled the street. An older woman poked her head out, gathering evidence for her fodder of gossip. She caught sight of him and nodded once. "Best get inside," she barked, jerking her chin in a vague direction given she knew nothing of his intended location. "There's a right storm comin' – go on, then, there's a good lad."

Amused, Severus could only raise one eyebrow. Saying nothing, he strolled on past, muttering a quiet farewell when he'd passed her door.

It was Spinner's End, and it wasn't.

He saw now that the houses were mostly scrubbed—grey they were, and dour, but clean. There were doors of many colours, though red and green seemed to dominate. Every now and then, there was a pot beside a front door with a well-tended and hardy plant. It smelled like rain and Chinese takeaway, a vast improvement from the canal and the old, falling-apart Mill in Cokeworth. He slowed his pace and shoved cold hands into the pockets of his coat. Looking up, Severus noted the lights shining out of windows; not for him, this warm and welcome street. Spinner's End had been cloaked in darkness, the silence punctured by chastising yells and violent thumps.

Swallowing, Severus ran a hand over his mouth and pinched the skin between his thumb and forefinger. _Enough._ He found himself automatically reaching for the folded paper with her address scrawled upon it. Pausing, he unfolded it and stared at her cursive, then the tiny little smiling mouth she'd drawn instead of her name. Severus shook his head, aware that he was too fond of her to question her obvious happiness. Furthering the stride of his legs, he set off again, the beginnings of a grin spread upon his lips.

Finally— _finally_!—he would see her. See her, touch her, if Fate chose to bless him this night. He had enough years under his belt to quieten the stirrings of arousal that sparked at the thought of laying even a hand on her warm, bare skin, yet he approached the green door with a pounding heart. Nothing was promised—nothing was ever promised, he knew, child of a broken woman that he was—but if he could just take her hand, skim his fingers over the flesh at her wrists, know what it was to sip from her mouth, then surely he would be fortunate indeed.

He knocked once, twice, then cleared his throat and rapped once more. "Hermione?" he called quietly, drawing back as he heard someone running down the stairs inside the home.

She pulled the door open with all of the aplomb worthy of the simplicity of her clothes. Severus stared at her soft-looking white blouse and jeans, and swallowed. "Good evening," he said gruffly, looking now at her hair as he pondered the wisdom of forgoing dinner altogether and threading his fingers through the knotted curls instead. For her part, Hermione was flushed pink, her hands linked nervously in front of her.

"Hello, Severus," she returned, biting down on her lower lip; try as she might, the smile on her face did not dissipate. "Come inside – looks like it'll rain any minute now."

The smile that she wore, Severus realised, was the same easy look of anticipation and giddiness that he'd caught in her eyes during their very first meeting in Durham. With the image of Hermione and Rosie running after him and calling his name, bidding him to stop and talk, Severus moved onto the doorstep and placed a hand on the witch's waist. He stayed by her long enough to note how she swayed towards him, then slid past her, entering her home for the first time.

He'd been wrong, he discovered.

The atmosphere here, in the cosy house on Prospect Street, was radically different, entirely altered, from his own childhood experience. It was small, to be sure, and the layout—with one extra bedroom upstairs, Severus deduced—was almost exactly the same, but this was no Spinner's End. The front door opened into the sitting room, and there were bookshelves everywhere. From floor to ceiling, with enough space only for a television old enough to be thick and grey instead of thin, wide and black. There was a carpet under his feet, a thin red Turkish number, and the couches were cream, covered with throws and pillows that declared the presence of women. He took in the fresh flowers on the coffee table, and the music playing from a stereo on one shelf, all giving truth to whatever it was that was building between them. Turning, Severus saw Hermione, standing with her back to the door as she anxiously waited.

Quietly, sincerely, he murmured, "You've made a home here." Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she nodded. "It's lovely," he added, glancing around again. "It suits you both."

"It does," replied Hermione, still twisting her fingers together. "And…"

He titled his head to the side, intrigued. "And?"

The oven beeped. Hermione stayed where she was just long enough to utter an entirely honest, "It suits you, too, you know," before she covered her wide smile and fled for the safety of the kitchen that smelled of comfort and warmth. He tried, and failed, to rub the smirk away from his mouth.

When he followed her, hearing the first drops of rain on the roof, Severus leant against the doorway. Silently, indulgently, he watched as she tied a battered old plum coloured apron around her body and slid out a tray from the oven. She took no chances, bringing it carefully to a wooden board near the sink. Another man might have quizzed her on all of the Muggle techniques that she used, but Severus' black eyes softened as he watched her tip the excess juices into a glass bowl, then return the tray to the oven, the red mitts on her hands protecting her skin. This was his mother all over again, but not, given the happiness that wrapped itself around him when she looked over her shoulder and smiled, cheeks pink.

"Sorry," she said hurriedly, untying the apron. "I was a bit late coming home and didn't get it all in the oven as early as I had hoped."

Crossing his arms, Severus rolled his shoulders. "I'm not in any hurry. Are you?"

"Oh, no," she said and crossed the room to stand before him. "No."

"Where is Rose?" he asked, digging in his pocket and producing a wrapped and shrunken package. He held it out to her and she took his hand, leading them back into the sitting room to fold themselves down onto the couch. Rosie was at her father's, he learned, though he was far more interested in the way that she exclaimed with breathy delight at the book in her lap.

"Thank you!" she said, pressing it to her chest. "It's perfect."

"You wouldn't prefer…" He cast his mind about, wondering what on earth people brought to a _date,_ having never been on one in his life. "Wine?" he managed.

Waving a hand in the air and smirking in a deliciously superior manner, Hermione summoned a bottle of red. "We're all set for _that_ ," she teased, the next swish of her fingers producing glasses. "My parents visit Australia from time to time; you wouldn't believe how many bottles they bring back each time!"

"Something tells me they have outside help," he remarked, delighting in the show of her delicate, tanned wrists as she poured the rich red liquid.

She chuckled under her breath and confessed, "I may have developed a self-shrinking case to aid in their endeavours."

"Does it not…" He floundered, trying to remember a film he'd seen a few years previous. "Does it not bother the wine? The travel?"

"No, no!" she said, handing him the glass. Their fingers brushed, and she smiled again, tossing her head of wild hair. "Well, some might, but these are fine. In any case, the box I designed keeps them safe from all of the jostling around. Certainly no worse than bringing them back from the off-licence."

"And what is this?" He swirled the wine around in his mouth, enjoying the warmth it brought. She gave him a look, implying that he could read the label for himself, but he smirked and leaned back against the couch, wanting only to hear her voice again.

Finally, she told him with a tender note to her voice. "This one here is from the Hunter Valley, though my parents prefer to source theirs from the Barossa – it's near where they…" Breaking off, she coloured slightly. "It's where they lived once."

"I didn't know that you lived in Australia," he pressed, slightly bemused. There was a treasure chest of woman to uncover in Hermione, and he was barely scratching the surface.

She shrugged, a simple, well-rehearsed movement. "I didn't. They were there for a few years during the war."

Severus considered asking something else, something to prod her lightly onto the path of explaining further, but felt no desire to do so. Instead he took another sip of wine, wishing it was her tongue he was drawing into his mouth. "I'm glad you like the book."

.

.

 _Like the book? Like?_ Hermione ran a finger over the spine. _He brought me a book instead of flowers or wine or a cake from Sainsbury's. He brought me a book!_

"I _love_ the book," she corrected him, and then the rain picked up, pounding on the roof. It was the best endowment she could have asked for; she found peace in it, and in the way Severus' eyes darted to the ceiling and back to her, as if he could see the droplets falling.

"You do?"

"I do!" she confirmed, wondering how on earth he couldn't see just how it affected her. He'd found a coffee table book— _just like the ones I told him I liked!_ —on Iceland and already her fingers itched to open it. The oven's beep jolted her out of her blissful examination. "I'll just…" she began, then made for the kitchen when he nodded and stood, apparently heading for the table in the corner.

Busying herself with serving the simple roast, Hermione chewed on the corner of her lip. She was anxious and jittery; her palms were clammy and she'd hardly been able to string two words together. Finally, finally, he was here! Here, Severus Snape, flesh and blood and man. By the sounds coming from the front room, he was setting the small, circular dining table. Just the sound of the cutlery clinking together in his fingers had her stifling a self-satisfied hoot of laughter. As it was, she gave in to temptation and jogged on the spot, bunching her fists and punching them in the air. _Yes!_

She left the kitchen poised and collected. He was staring at her intently, his eyes on hers as if he were bent on discovering something, of stripping her to bare bones and laying out her wishes and wants and desires on the table. Taking in one hesitant breath, she set the plates down and said, "Join me, Severus. I'd l—" she began, then stopped. He'd eased her chair out behind her, one hand cupped in the air to guide her into it. Stunned and unprepared for politeness, she sank into the chair and managed a faint, "I'd love it if you'd join me."

"I'm glad you asked me here," he responded, eyes fixed on the plate of chicken and vegetables. He cleared his throat and sat down. "I have been… I have been waiting."

"Yes," she breathed, directing a mental 'bugger off' to her sensibilities and reaching across to touch his hand. "Me, too. I'm sorry that it's taken me… that it's taken _us_ so long."

They began to eat and again Hermione smiled at the way he navigated the meal; no prim and proper man was this. He speared a piece of chicken and swirled it through the gritty specks from the crisp potatoes. She hadn't meant do it, but still she gave a little sigh of relief and triumph when he popped it into his mouth with clean gusto, conveying his appreciation without spraying the table. It was hard not to compare him with Ron, not when he was sitting across from her like her husband had done. Their dining table at the cottage behind the Burrow had been magically extended to within an inch of its life and it bore no similarities to the tidy one she used now, but the placing of the men was the same. Happiness, as potent as _Felix Felicis,_ settled over her. The two men were worlds apart. Neither were perfect, but then neither was she – far from it.

She sighed again, and he looked up from the meal. "Why are you sorry?"

"About the timing – I wanted it to be sooner," she admitted, slightly flustered.

Severus merely looked at her more closely. "As did I," he said steadily.

She felt her cheeks blaze. At first she thought he was unaffected, but then caught sight of his left leg restlessly bouncing. It inspired and warmed her, this sight of his tension. "Will you tell me more about your home? About the time that you bought it, and the Dales?"

"I shall," he said simply between bites. "Eat," he directed, tapping her forgotten cutlery. "It's very good. Eat, and I shall tell you."

Eyeing him teasingly, she obliged him and he began to speak, eyes flitting between her mouth and the room. When he looked away from her, her gaze slid to his pale, practiced hands. They alternated between using the utensils and gesturing vaguely in the air as he recited the tale. Each time they returned to the table, she felt a faint quiver within her belly as something uncoiled and searched out his touch. She drank and he drank, and when Hermione saw the print of his lips on his glass, she set hers down and wished that she'd planned this on any other damn week. Or at least rescheduled, because she certainly hadn't predicted the arrival of her—

"…I still brew for the school, though only on occasion."

"It all sounds wonderful."

"Does it?" He shrugged and cocked his head in the direction of the rest of the house. "This is also wonderful."

"It is," she agreed readily, easily. "God, this is everything I wanted for… for years, really. I used to think about it constantly when I was married." Freezing, she stole a glance and found him nodding.

"You've done well. And… I would hope that you would tell me of this, too."

"Not all of it. We'd be here all night."

Severus opened his mouth to speak, then she suspected he must have thought better of it, for he only hummed. "Some of it, then."

Shifting in the chair, Hermione traced her mouth with a fingertip. "Ron and I worked for longer than seems possible now, after the fact. He was good with me, and he… he understood. He knew what I knew, and my… ah. My nightmares were his nightmares. Do you know what I mean?"

He ducked his head. "In a way."

Continuing, she mumbled, "We were fine, until we weren't. It's not because of Rosie – we were headed that way before her, I'm sure of it. I suppose that the issue of her magic just exacerbated it, brought it smashing into us. I wasn't prepared for it, but it was almost a… a… _relief,_ when his mouth would run off and he'd blurt out these things about blame, and about her future. I couldn't hear it; I didn't want to hear it. I think I'd been looking for an excuse, some formal box I could tick so that I wouldn't mourn the marriage, and as she got older, the excuses came by the bucket-load. It was an easy decision, in the end. And now," she said simply, "I'm here. I came here for the affordable rents, but things have fallen into place. I have a home, Rosie's in a good school, she's happy, I have a career—a fledgling one, mind you, but there's time for that yet—and I have… I have…" _You. I have you now. I hope that I have you, now._

He rescued the fumbling conversation, repeating, "You've done well." He brought up his research, and Hermione rested her chin in her palm, transfixed by the faint flush on his cheeks and neck. She thought of tugging open the navy button-up shirt he wore, of brushing her fingers over the smattering of dark hair that was sure to be there on his chest.

When he mentioned the avenues he was considering with charmed potions, she clutched at the path to lead her mind away from its minx-like focus. "I always thought it was more of a mirage, the idea that one could simply research forever and still manage to pay their own way." Sniffing, she added, "I lived as a broke student once – I don't think I could do that again. Besides, Rosie despises two-minute noodles."

He looked at her with warm, black eyes. "I had almost twenty years of experience by that point," he reminded her. "Moving from instructing to preparing, researching, was simple."

"I think I envy you a little," she declared. "It's a good envy – I want that for you. But for me, too."

"You want to research and live in the middle of nowhere, hobbling around taking photographs every now and then?"

With a little gurgle of laughter, she batted a hand at him. "How on earth can you manage to make that all sound like it's a bad thing?"

"It isn't. Of course it isn't. It's brilliant." His grin was delicious, roguish.

"You're like the cat who has eaten up all of the cream, the milk, the butter and the raw ceviche too!"

"Ah, wrong," he said. His knee pressed against hers long enough to be purposeful. "Not the cream."

His face was carefully blank, but the way his eyes burned her was engaging, intimate. She was unprepared for it, and it left her breathless. "Not the cream?"

Severus remained silent, though his features twisted into a grimace.

"What is it?" she pressed, sending the dishes to the sink with a practiced wave of her hand. "Tell me." Leaning forward, she captured his hands, halting the way his fingertips were tapping on the table surface.

Bluntly, he muttered, "I don't know anything about this. About any of it. I have no… I have no bloody talent for whatever it is that I could say to convince you that I care for you, that I could just as easily fall in love with you as I could fall into your bed, and that I want you in my life, I want Rosie in my life, and this is all such a bloody _mess_." He heaved one, quick breath. "You know what you're doing, and I'm sure to bollocks this up somehow." Standing abruptly, Severus strode over to a bookcase. "I'm sorry," he murmured. The room was quiet apart from the rain; somehow she knew that he was listening for her reaction, with all of his body, all of his senses.

She sat as if stunned. The words, such an awkward, brash declaration, ran around and around within her. Her breath came short as she heard it again and again: _I could just as easily fall in love with you as I could fall into your bed. I want you in my life, I want Rosie in my life. I care for you._

Adrift, she pushed herself out of the chair and took one step towards him.

 _I want you in my life._

"Severus," she said, her voice shaking.

 _I want Rosie in my life._

He did not face her; as she neared him, his body tensed, ready to spring, ready to flee.

 _I could just as easily fall in love with you as I could fall into your bed._

"Severus." She reached out with one trembling hand, laying it on his shoulder. "Severus."

He bent his head. "Sorry," he repeated gruffly.

"Why?" she implored, filled with such a fierce and acute yearning for him and all he entailed that she dug her fingers into his shoulder and pulled him to face her. When he did, she could barely stop a gasp at the bare, wanting look on his face. She knew that it was reflected in her expression, for his lips parted and his hands rose in the air, though they fell back to his sides when she opened her mouth to speak again. "Do you know," she said wonderingly, placing her hands over her heart, "that was the most… nobody has ever… about me, that is – nobody has ever said that about me. To me." Then, because she couldn't hold it in after seeing the flash of anguish and hope in his magpie eyes, she whispered, "You're very beautiful to me, Severus. Do you know that you are?"

He shook his head, hurt. "Don't. There's no need—"

Hermione realised that at that moment, she loved him twice as much as she had before. And when had she begun to love him at first? She had no idea of the answer, no inkling as to when he'd snuck into her heart, nestled his way in, to wherever he sat within her now that was unmovable, unbreakable. She wanted to embrace him then, to feel everything that was there, waiting for her inside of him.

Timidly, she pressed two fingers on his soft, thin lips. His eyes widened and she drew breath, lost in the sensation of the warmth of his mouth under her fingertips. "You _are_ beautiful," she said firmly. "It's you—it's who you are, who you were, who you will be. Your eyes, your face, even, even—" Giddily, she pushed up onto her toes and kissed his nose. Rearing back, she laughed aloud at his look of surprise. "It's all of you!" she said, keeping her fingers on his lips. "It's how you look at me—you see me, did you know? You see me, all of me, and the best part—the _best_ part—is that I see you, too! I—" She faltered, gathering courage around her like a cloak. Knowing her feelings with such stark clarity made her wonder if she'd been drowning before, and if she had, then had he, too? Coming out of the water with one, steady smile, she assembled the words. "I love you, Severus," she told him. "I love you, and I won't have you thinking you don't know what you're doing, because you've given me no choice but to love you, and that's that."

His black eyes were piercing. He made no move towards her, but she saw that his hands were shaking, that his body was poised on the brink of something. "Say it again," he demanded hoarsely, finally setting the tension in him away and taking one step to her. "Tell me again."

She'd said it once, and it was freeing to say it again. Matching his step with one of hers, she came so close to his body that surely only an inch or two separated them. Tilting her face to his, she grinned and said, "I love you, Severus. I do. I do. I l—"

He silenced her by gripping her shoulders, searching her face intently. "Hermione…"

More than anything, she wanted him to kiss her. "Yes?"

"Tell me this isn't a dream. I do not want this to be… this cannot be a dream. Say it again. Just—just once more."

"I want you in my life, Severus Snape," she declared simply in response. " _We_ want you in our lives."

"Oh," he sighed, rubbing one hand fiercely over his eyes, then opened his arms to her. "Come here, Hermione." There was intent in the way that his hand slid around her neck, tangling in her hair. He touched her hip; her waist. She buried her fingers in the soft cotton shirt and tugged him down, hearing the sweetness that was his baritone voice uttering her name once more, before he pressed his mouth to hers.

It was chaste and testing: one mere touch of his lips to hers. As if both were turning the idea of kissing again over in their minds, they moved towards each other again in unison: one more soft, unassuming kiss. His palms held her cheeks as he tilted her head gently to the side and he kissed her again, lingering this time, the taste of him warm and sweet. They broke away from each other and she closed her eyes, offering him a pleading whisper, "Severus… please, won't you… again…"

He chuckled darkly under his breath and she opened her eyes, entranced by the sound and the way his eyes were heavy with arousal. "I'd like to," he said hoarsely, watching her and huffing a quick breath when she nodded, lower lip caught by her teeth. "Let me," he whispered, replacing her teeth with his thumb, smoothing it over her mouth before swiftly he bent his head again and captured her lips.

She moaned, then, at the feel of his tongue sliding its way past her lips. It was full with the taste of him, of wine and rich food and musk. He might have pulled away then, might have loosened his grip on her hair, her waist, but her desire drove them onward. When she linked her fingers through his hair, keeping him flush against her body, he groaned into her mouth, pushing forwards until her back met the wall.

"Hermione…" he breathed as she shifted on her legs, guiding his thigh to rest between them, his hardness now trapped at her belly. He pressed against her and she gasped, her mouth now free as his lips and teeth nipped at her neck, her ear, her shoulder. "This is heaven," he murmured when he let his forehead rest on her chest.

"Yes, yes," she managed to say, fingers trailing down his chest. "Severus, I…"

She felt him tense, but he kept his hands on her waist, gentling his grip only slightly. "It's too soon, I'm sorry."

"No, it's not that," she scolded him teasingly, squeezing the back of his neck. "It's just that I—ah—well, I've got my period and I'd very much like for you to stay, but I suppose that…"

He drew back to look at her, and his grin was both relieved and slightly wolfish. "I don't mind. Does it bother you?"

"Oh." Hermione thought for a moment, bemused. "Not at all, but… well… I wasn't really in the right frame of mind while getting ready today and, well…"

"Did you need to prepare yourself, witch?" he purred, chuckling again. "Whatever for?"

She lifted her chin. "I've never had a man over here, Severus. It's a big change. It's new, and exciting too, of course, but also rather terrifying."

"Yes," he agreed simply. "I know. Shall I… ah, not that I want to, but shall I go?" Softening the question, he placed a kiss on her mouth.

"No!" It was out of her before she could take it back. She soldiered on. "Won't you stay with me? Sleep here with me. Now that I have you, I don't… I don't want… It's just that Dent is so very far away, and—and…"

"Hush, woman." He extinguished the lights with a wave of his hand, then dug into his back pocket to produce his wand. He sent the books back to their orderly stack on the table and set the rest of the room to rights. "Come to bed with me, Hermione."

"I will," she said with quiet joy. "I will."

.

.

They whispered together in her bed for what felt like hours. He held her in his arms; the intimacy of simply lying with her was heady. Hermione fell asleep easily; she simply set her cheek upon his chest, stroked along his collarbones a handful of times, and then sighed. He wore his singlet and transfigured pyjama bottoms, but he felt her breath puffing on his body as if he were naked.

Severus was lost in the sensation of holding her. Her curls tickled his neck; her hands, trapped under his on his belly, were warm. She mumbled nonsensical things every now and then about lunch money and pick-up times.

He couldn't fall asleep. He was aroused—almost painfully so—and the feel of her body pressed half over his was enthralling. The stiffness of his erection was unrelenting and he resented it, wishing that he could close his eyes and fall into dreams with her, about her. He sighed for the umpteenth time and revisited the memory of her mouth on his, her breasts crushed against his chest. The brassiere she'd worn had made it impossible to feel tightened nipples but he found that in the quiet hours of the night, he could trick his mind into believing that he'd felt the hardened buds, teased them, tongued them. His private climax in the kitchen of the Rose Cottage earlier that day had done nothing to quell his arousal – an impossible, herculean task, he realised. He hadn't been this close to a woman in more years than he wished to count, and her proximity was close to sending him mad with desire.

It was her confession, her declaration of pure and ardent love, that had undone him. He'd known that she cared for him, assumed it based on their interactions, but _love…_ It was everything. To feel loved, to be loved…

Severus smiled, drawing her closer. She mumbled and smacked her lips together before settling again.

He knew beyond all doubt that he loved her. It had taken him until now, until she slept with such abandon and trust, to understand that the burning in his chest, the ache he felt, was how he returned her feelings. He'd known it previously, but it was masked under other things: concern for her safety at night (a ridiculous thing, to be concerned about a powerful witch), thoughts about Rosie and her lack of magic, ideas about places to take the two females in his life. Even teaching her daughter was filled with such anxiety and determination that he realised _now_ that it, too, was from love. He didn't want to disappoint either witch or girl, and he wanted this, this feeling of a woman sleeping in his arms, every night.

Time passed, perhaps an hour or so, and soon he became overwhelmed from her nearness. Almost without thinking, he pushed his covered sex against her thighs, thrusting rhythmically. He clutched onto her waist with one hand, and with the other, twisted a curl around his finger. It was all he dared to do.

Later still, she awoke. He was still hard, still breathless with desire, and she rubbed her cheek on his chest like a sunning cat. He thrust against her again, groaning, and she whimpered. He turned on his side and rose above her, searching for her mouth in the darkness; he found her jaw first and kissed it, sliding his lips along her skin until she caught them, her tongue thrusting along with his hips.

"Hermione," he hissed, a groan falling from his mouth to hers as he pushed again, his cock throbbing from pressing on the silk of her pyjamas. Breathless, he kissed her cheek, her neck and when she guided his head to her breast, he sighed and pulled down the strap of her singlet. "Hermione, love…"

He caressed her bare breasts, entranced with the way they filled his hands. He ran his cheek, now gritty with new growth, between them, then pushed them together with his fingers as he suckled the buds, barely believing that he was _here_ , his mouth on her nipples, his cock so close to the heat of her as he drowned in her cries of pleasure, her fingers digging into his waist, tugging the hairs on his chest—

"I love you," he gasped, crying out into the night as she wrought a shuddering climax from his body. She crooned to him, pulling him down until he was pillowed upon her breast, her fingers in his hair.

"I know, I know," she whispered over and over again, dragging her nails down his back. "I'm so _happy_ that you love me." And he knew it – he felt it, her happiness, this tangible thing that she gifted him with.

"Love you," he said sleepily, exhausted. "I do, you know."

"I know. I know, I know, darling man."

.

.

Two weeks later, her sharp teeth sunk into her lower lip as he ran his hands along the curve of her hip. He'd dreamt of her for the fortnight; the waiting was torturous. They were in her room again, and she was naked beside him on the bed.

"Severus," she whispered pleadingly, " _yes._ Oh, yes. I don't want to wait any longer." He groaned and spread his fingers out over her belly, feeling the softness of her flesh.

Nodding once, he dipped one finger down to touch her, feeling her clitoris quiver at his attention. "God," she moaned, pushing her hips up toward his hand. "Please—I just—I can't… I'm half there already, love, I don't think I can—"

Her hands trailed down his chest to take him in hand and he gasped. "Yes," he hissed, allowing her to tug him gently towards her; he'd melt into her if she would only allow it.

He felt light-headed as she guided him to her warm, wet entrance; it was bizarre and close to unbearable, this feeling, this anticipation. The tip of him brushed over her chestnut curls and he nudged her hand away, taking hold of his cock as he did it again: one purposeful, teasing graze of the faint roughness. She laughed loudly, indulging the delight he found in exploring every inch of her sex.

"Come in, Severus," she whispered, moving her hips. "Come inside. I've been ever so patient…"

"You have," he replied, unable to say out loud that he was nervous, that he was anxious, that he was desperately worried about not pleasing her the way she was obviously hoping that he would do. His eyes flicked down to where her legs were only half-open, as if she were waiting for something.

"Love," she murmured, "look at me."

He shifted once until their eyes were locked. Brushing a stray lock of hair away from his forehead, she whispered, "If either of us manage to last longer than half a minute, I think that'd be something to be recorded. As it is… take the edge off for me. I want…" She gave a little half-laugh; her voice shook. " _I want you_."

Her desire slid inside of him until his chest was full with it and he could not deny her. She took him in her fingers again and then— _oh, then_ —there was skin giving way, tightness enveloping, heat inviting—

"Slowly," she moaned; she was breathing rapidly and when she pulled his head down to capture his mouth, he felt her smile on his lips. "Slowly, now."

"Gods," he gasped, and it was a raw sound, a naked, hopeless sound as he finally— _finally, finally_ —sunk into her, his entire body aflame with whatever it was that she was gifting him with.

Severus took her hands, pressing them down flat beside her head of tangled hair. He linked their fingers together, thrusting in again, coaxing her, hoping beyond hope, beyond measure, to draw her pleasure out, call it out to play with him, to come to him, to come _with_ him—

It was exquisite. It was her and it was the heat of her; it was Hermione and it was her body that was wrapped around him, keeping him there. The witch pushed her body down to meet his second thrust and she gave a hoarse cry of surprise.

"Oh— _oh—"_ she breathed, one hand jerking free of his fingers and working its way between their bodies. "You—yes, just—oh, _there_ —just let me—I'll—oh—" She was pressing on her clit but even before that, he felt her tightening, felt her tensing, her entire body quivering—

And he knew it, then. He knew it: he'd brought her to this precipice, this sensation that she was chasing, that she was waking to but not giving in to.

She was insistent; she pulled him closer—as if he could be any closer, joined with her the way that he was!—and her fingers now dug into his buttocks as she cried out again. Severus could only thrill to it, relish in it, revel in the scratching of her fingernails and the—

"Ah—" he hissed, "gods—Hermione, I—"

He kissed her then, his mouth on hers, lips curving into a grin of ecstasy as, impossibly, they came together.

"Yes?" he managed to murmur later when she'd cleaned them both and tucked him into the bed beside her, her thigh nestled between his.

"Oh," she said mischievously, " _yes._ "

.

.

.

 _Fifteen Saturdays later_

He coughed, realising that he'd spoken aloud instead of internally.

"Hmm?" Hermione looked up from her book and Severus responded with a noncommittal grunt. Her feet were on his lap as she stretched out along the couch in his sitting room. Rosie was poring over a text at the desk across the room. It was new, and he'd set it up to stand under one of the windows, though the girl hardly glanced at the view outside the house. She was lost in the tome. Severus ran his fingers over Hermione's toes, pausing to admire the delicate curve of her ankles.

"Did you say something?" she murmured, wiggling her toes. He took each one between his thumb and forefinger, pressing down until she giggled. "What?"

"Nothing," he replied softly, returning his attention to the podcast playing through the speakers set on various bookshelves. It was a blessing that both witch and girl could tune out his habit of dabbling with the benefits of his internet connection on long, cold nights.

Hermione hummed and went back to reading, while Rose opted to leave the desk and flop down by the fire. It cast a warm glow about the room and Severus watched, a half-smile on his lips, as his student stared at the dancing flames. Soon, he knew, she'd potter around in the kitchen, searching for something or other to eat before taking her plate to the garden where she would stick her head over the fence and look for livestock, no matter the weather or time of day.

He'd steal a kiss then, his mouth on Hermione's, drinking in the taste of her.

For now, though, Severus tipped his head back and closed his eyes, content.

 _My home is full._

 ** _._**

 ** _._**

 _ **The end.**_

* * *

 _ **Prompt** : 60:_  
 _Single mum Hermione is struggling to find the right assistance for her child (the nature of the issue is up to you). Why does she turn to Snape? Is he able to help? How does his success or failure affect their relationship? (SS/HG.)_


End file.
